


In None We Trust

by ufopilots



Series: In None We Trust [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst and Feels, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, I have also dropped a few headcanons around here and there, M/M, Major Character Injury, Psychological Trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Violence, warning: minor cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-05-30 15:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ufopilots/pseuds/ufopilots
Summary: This is a BATIM fic that takes place in an AU where the relationships between the Joey Drew Studios' residents are best described as "hierarchical". Everyone has their own role and place, with Bendy standing tall above all as he feeds the masses with false hopes of freedom while they blindly serve him. With Sammy Lawrence as the protagonist, this story explores his realization of the bitter truth and his detachment from the dogmas he so long held on to, as well as his fateful bond with Norman Polk. Together, they will team up against the ink demon's rule to tell a story of struggle, pain, hope, rebellion, loyalty and love.





	1. For You, My Lord

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this for myself, but thought I'd share it with the rest of the Bendy community. As of 25/9/2018 this work has been completed, ending the main story on 14 chapters. However I still have some extra content planned, so stay tuned for that! (Check end notes of Chapter 14 for details)  
> Every kind of positive comment and support is always appreciated <3
> 
> Warning: In case this wasn't obvious enough, this fic DOES contain shipping. If NormanxSammy is not your cup of tea, you are welcome to not read it. Otherwise, enjoy!
> 
> ps. Always check the end notes for updates and such!
> 
> \---
> 
> For those who don't know I have a tumblr, where I keep updates for this fic and draw. Here it is, check it out if you're interested in more stuff from me! Support is appreciated!! **https://ufopilots.tumblr.com/**
> 
> 14/8/2018 : I drew how Sammy and Norman look in this AU! I have dropped a few canons into the fic but have this as a clear visual reference. **https://ufopilots.tumblr.com/post/176737712757/doodle-this-is-how-sammy-and-norman-in-my-inwt** (can be found again on chapter 8)
> 
> 11/9/2018: This lovely person here made the first fanart for the series! Go check it out!!  
>  **https://theeditorqueen.tumblr.com/post/177358163845/i-drew-dis-for-you-pilots-its-from-the-start-of** (can be found again on chapter 9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loyalty is always rewarded, they say. The most patient ones shall taste freedom, they say..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Before we start, to make sure I don't confuse anyone, Norman is not going to appear until a few chapters into this fic. Although it heavily focuses on the relationship of the two, Sammy is still the protagonist and I have to introduce his character properly. The story begins shortly before Sammy catches and attempts to sacrifice Henry in-game, and takes it's own non-canon way from there.)  
> 

_“But, love requires sacrifice._

_Can I get an amen?”_  

* * *

 The prophet had witnessed so many rituals in his post-human lifetime. Why yes, he was the host of them for the most part. It had come to become his daily grind. Feeding his own hopes for a promise…

_the bloodshed, the devotion_

These halls were once painted with more blood than one could ever imagine. Infiltrated into his unholy kingdom, these corpses of once hardworking individuals served their purpose as precisely as the demon’s plans ordered. Death was followed by a new life, an endless cycle cursed with suffering, trapped behind these walls, underneath these floors, an earthly hell to feed the Ink Machine forevermore.

And then there was him.

A lonesome musician, a man of art who once created pieces for lighthearted, innocent cartoons that were now no more. Far back in the old days of glory, he used to be so much more than what the present beheld. The head of this studio’s music department, an example of decency, an inspiration, even. Despite this title, he was rather humble, always welcome to lend a hand to the small, aspiring musicians who seek a mentor, or simply wished to be listened to.

It was the same hand that himself had soiled with the blood of countless offerings to the lord. 

* * *

  “The Lord, the Lord..!

_MY LORD!"_

With a voice trembling in contemplation he called, as the inked deity emerged from the depths of this everlasting haze before his mere sight once again.

Get on your knees and pray, prophet. 

“Forgive me, if this is not the right time…”

A sardonic smile was painted across Bendy’s face, one hiding his true agitation upon a summoning so uncalled for. He leered like a hunting hawk over his disciple, awaiting something. This was not the time he wished to be disturbed, indeed. The almighty did not excuse such calls for nothing, and even Sammy’s loyalty meant little to him in the long run, whether he may believe it or not. He better had summoned him for a reason, a reason to let him get away in one piece at least.

The ink demon did not respond otherwise. He expected his prophet to talk.

Benevolent as he was towards the being he worshipped, he wanted anything but to possibly anger him. He looked up at him with an almost dreaded sigh. Such news would need a very careful, specific kind of approach. In his wit he found the nerve and spoke up.

“I have found a new sheep, my Lord. And this time, it is all fresh living blood. Mortal flesh, all yours to feast on! For I have no clue how could someone from, from... out there, end up in this world of ours that you have so wonderfully shaped. It is so lost and, begging to be slaughtered, my Lord. It would be more than an honor for me to guide it to you, if you so wish.”

Hearing so made Bendy suddenly so quiet. His grin widened, but it was not his glee that arose. Taking a step forward and arching over him, and down to his height, he was now a lot more close up and personal to the musician. The odor of fear was present between them, and to him, perceivable. With his head right above the other one’s, he growled. 

_“Don’t you dare be lying to me about such things.”_

Sammy, abashed, pulled his body back from the demon in a regretful manner as these words filled his heart with guilt.

“I-.. I could never lie to you, my Lord...”

It was unreal for him to even think of doing that. No, no. Blasphemy to his own savior? He could never. This bond between man and god was formed out of mutual trust, or so he thought. This trust, he could not break. To his eyes, Bendy was most fair, and only spoke the truth. If he didn’t speak the truth at all times either, then… may the worst of condemnations be upon him, what kind of disciple was he?  

 _Truth leads to love, and his lord’s love would be his freedom._  

The ink demon moved back slightly once again.

“Ah.”

He had simply misunderstood him. Clearly, from the look of the depths of his torn soul, Sammy was genuine about this discovery. Oh Bendy had his way of picking out the liars. And when he found one, he…

But today, this man was going to be spared.

“Have your table all set tonight, my servant. Mortal flesh is a special kind of delicacy.”

Sammy's skin shuddered and trickled in excitement.

“My savior… Have no worry. For you, I will put this sheep to sleep with care and punctuality, I will-“

“No.”

Idling with a puzzled expression, the prophet stared in wonder. “No..?”

The shimmering grin was present yet again. Bendy craved and lusted after living blood. An occurrence so rare was so much of a desire. This kind of sacrifice wasn’t fit to be in the stained hands of the shepherd, nor under his psalms and tools of annihilation. This was one the demon deserved to harness himself.

“I want it alive. I want its heart wriggling between my claws. Bring it to me.. but don’t even think about laying a finger on it. This portion shall become my, and only _my_ delight.

..Do you understand?” 

He only got a glimpse of him nodding in agreement while with this command, he turned his back to the world behind him. His gaze lurking around the room one last time before once again, opening way to his domain.

A blackened trail was left behind, closing into the wall until it completely vanished along with him.

Sammy remained within an absent state of mind, even moments after the ink demon had abandoned him to himself. The only thing that made him snap back to reality in a short matter was one dark puddle he caught with the very corner of his eye, a hatted searcher spawning beside a still chair.

His emboldened look behind the mask was brought upon the creature, before slipping again into the -imaginable let's say- horizon.

“You heard it Jack? The Lord has honored us with the greatest chance we had in a long, long time.”

The inky slug groaned in response, saying something indescribable. Uncertain if it even said something, at all. Perhaps it was not a response to the prophet’s words either, but only another groan of suffering, among the countless. It vanished into nullity back from its own puddle in seconds, its little bowler hat that made it distinct from the rest of its kind along.

Sammy was once again, alone. 

With a heartened gaze shifting upon the ceiling, he brought his fists to his chest and exhaled in repose.

“And maybe this time... _he will set us free_.”


	2. Nemesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _much_ can you possibly believe in something? How far can that take you? And what do you do when it turns out to be...?

_“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep._

_Rest your head, it’s time for bed.”_  

* * *

 Patience is a virtue.

The prophet waited calmly for the liturgy before the one who would soon become the victim of this atrocious ritual.

Beaten unconscious, and bound sitting on the center of a pentagram, the man was blissfully unaware of the fact that in a few moments he would lose his life.

The purgatory was mute and barely lit. Only sounds were the heels of the musician’s soles, pacing back and forth patiently as he would wait for his fellow human to wake up, so that he shall greet him properly prior to his last moments. In his hands he was bearing the axe that this person wielded before. Heavy stuff. Knowing.. it was thanks to his quietness that he ended up knocking the man out, otherwise he would have been fatally wounded, if not killed. Sammy never underestimated the strength of his own kin, despite how many had fallen victims into becoming offerings to the demon before.

He knew people can be… scary.

He stopped to lean against a pikestaff, taking a good look at this man. Sammy’s vision picked up details that had become so unfamiliar with the passage of years. Clear -a bit wrinkled- skin, nails, a distinct, well-constructed face, fair grey hair. And the only way to describe these futures was simply, human. Somewhere within, it haunted him. How long had it been since himself used to possess all of that? It was looking at him that made him realize… just how much he envied all of this.

To become _whole_  again. 

* * *

 Blinking pale eyes, greeted by the ceiling’s warm lights. 

“Ah, there you are, my little sheep.”

As rejoiced as the shepherd was to see him open his eyes, the man was horrified with what he had in front of him. Even more so, because he recognized the voice speaking to him. His mortal eyes widened in fear and disgust, as he witnessed a friend from long ago possess a wretched, inked body of horrors, with absolutely no plausible explanation about what he went through to be found in this state.

A tear rolled down as he stared in shock before this nightmare, voice breaking weakly.

“S-Sammy... Dear god.. _what happened..?"_ A sentence so quiet escaped his lips, enough for the prophet not to hear it at all.

“Shhh!” The ink person gestured silence with a finger over the cut of his expressionless mask, curving over him.

Despite the human’s clear signs of discomfort, Sammy went ahead and -ignoring his personal space- placed his hand under his chin.

“Don’t you fret now... I am here.”

He shut his eyelids and bit his lips at the touch, as the temperature of the abiotic palm under his jaw was vastly colder than his own hot-blooded skin. It was only natural that he was shaking, not only from that, but for the most part out of fear for the unknown that awaited him.

Sammy withdrew his hand, leaving a subtle trail of ink on his skin as a result. “So good to have you here, and.. alive. But, I’m afraid you won’t be joining us in this plane of existence.”

He sighed.

“Forgive me, my sheep. You could almost say this is.. cruel. And yet, it has been sacrifices like this that brought me closer to our Lord. Now that we have someone like you, believe me, he is very pleased.”

   
The middle-aged man shook his head in dismay, but no words could come out of his mouth. It was all so overwhelming, and certainly too much for such a lost person to conceive. He fought valiantly against the ropes that held him down, his once coworker’s corrupted presence merely intensifying his distress. Immobilized as he was, he _prayed_ that Sammy could remember his face, his name, even for a moment. By now it had become clear to him that he had lost his mind, and was about to guide him to his apparent demise. He couldn't believe what he was living.

But was there anything such a little man could do about that? 

* * *

  _rumble_

Sammy’s head cranked up upon the sound that surrounded them.

“Quiet! I can hear him..”

_clang, rumble .._

“It is time! He will set us free!”

He turned to the pikestaff, placing the axe down beside it before returning to his old friend’s sight.

“And you, shall be his portion. We have all been waiting so long for this. Little sheep...

_It’s time to believe.”_

With this farewell he walked to the office, closing the door behind as the other twisted and turned frantically between his ties.

"Wait, listen, don't-!!!"

His head hung hopelessly after the prophet's dismissal. Alas, it was too late to beg to have a word with him. He had been left to accept an inevitable fate.

Standing against the desk, Sammy pulled the microphone close to his mouth and sang the old song for the ritual to begin. It was only four lines short, but the meaning behind it was as dreary as the sunken studio itself.

Following, the summoning.

_"Hear me Bendy, arise from the darkness, arise and claim my offering! **FREE ME, I BEG YOU!** ...”_

The prophet could no longer contain the rush of excitement coursing through his veins. No, he, it.. He could feel it, he was only moments away from his salvation. This must truly be, the time he’s been anticipating. 

 _“Show your face, and take this tender sheep!”_  

* * *

 The ink demon showed himself in time.

His forbidding grin shinning in the depths of the lightless hallway.

In the very distance, the gate to the purgatory rising, revealing a human weakling that was fighting against the rope around its hands to escape. A mortal piece to appease his immense hunger for the blood that gods like himself don’t have.

And while everything seemed to be in order, the demon and the mortal finally locked gazes. And so for a split second, the distance between them felt nonexistent.

One gaze.

One gaze to unveil the peak of all truths. 

  ** _oh, the sacrilege!_**

 Chanting into the room, the prophet knew there was no stopping this ritual now. But what he could have never possibly known was that this certain offering, this last sacrifice of his, would be his gravest mistake. 

A shadow loomed above him.

_“My Lord..?”_

Bendy snarled demonically in immense disapproval, the intangible eyes of a reaper glaring at the disciple with the intention to tear him apart.

There was nothing to prove, nothing to prevent.

Nothing to say.

It was time he was getting rid of a slave that no longer served a purpose.  

 _“..!!!”_   

Sammy leaped in terror in a blood-curdling scream, only to try and save himself from the deity’s murderous punishment. It was that moment when he terrifyingly realized that ‘to be set free’ had a meaning that never matched what his hopes had reckoned.

   _and as the past’s vows washed upon the shores of his mind,_

_his blindness faded, and let him see_

_that he had been living a life built entirely on lies_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did Bendy took Sammy and not Henry, even though he followed his orders you may ask? Who knows. But he's doing it in canon too, and (not tied to the story but I think it's worth noticing) it seems like the ink demon is trying to lead Henry somewhere by "saving him" a few times.


	3. False Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But belief failed you. So... what is there left to live for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was originally going to be way lengthier, but I had to split it and move some events to the next one for better composition and easier process of the story for you guys.)

_“In the morning, you may wake_

_Or in the morning, you’ll be dead.”_  

* * *

   Buried under ashes and collapsed wooden fragments, lay the body of a fallen believer. His own prayers it seemed, took him by the hand and led him to a promised paradise that was no other than a lie in disguise, the abyss he never wished he’d slip into.

 His grasp, firm, clings onto the world, refusing to let go.

His trembling hands, pushing against the world’s weights to make way for him to escape. He emitted a groan, mere signal of physical pain, as by force he pulled himself back into an existence that tried to spit him out into the eternal darkness.

He stirred to lie on his numb side, forcing his eyelids to shut open. It wasn't long before the stinging pain in his stomach along with a nausea crawling up inside him made him throw up onto his own body. Sickly as he woke up, he vaguely came to the realization that he was still, somehow, breathing.

 And while his gullet burned, he could see his suspenders covered in his own blood, vomit and ink. Roughed up and bathing in a tortuous aftermath. Fragile. Vulnerable.

The more seconds were passing, the more he began to understand where had destiny stranded him. The Heaven in his mind sighed. It left him.

It left him alone with Hell. 

He lifted himself up to his knees. As darkness descended around him, Sammy put his hands over his face and began to weep. The hole into his heart was growing deeper and deeper,the feelings he once flourished with were pouring out to leave him stagnant.

  _obsolete you are, your era is done for_

_an era dedicated to belief_

_but the prophecies for freedom were untrue_

 Drowning in his self-ridden sorrow, he brought his Bendy mask up to his vision. The scratched, torn image of the god that once granted him freedom, and had now utterly broken the oath that the ink person shed blood and sweat for so long in his twisted lifetime. The bitter, harsh side of betrayal was revealed with a punishment that by miracle failed to take his life.

Never did he stop longing to know why. Why? He was faithful, he was obedient, he was dedicated without omission. If he had kept his word… then why was he punished?

  _“My Lord! Why did you do this?!”_

Panting with droplets of pain on his face as he stared the ceiling with his call, he fruitlessly waited for an answer.

  ** _“INK DEMON!!!”_**

 No answer.

 Suddenly, he plummeted.

Shedding a storm of tears engulfed in regret, his loud sobs echoed in and out of the broken room. The wreckage around him was his reflection. The floorboards creaked ever so slightly as he was lying down against them, squirming in his agonizing grief. The quiet scream of the neglected, corroding wood was there to accompany him in his everlasting loneliness, as with his guts to his throat he cursed the demon, but also his own worthlessness. 

  _“I-I trusted you..! I.. t..t-trusted y-you……”_

 He was mortified entirely, knowing that all those years he was adoring, caressing the existence of the most malevolent deceiver.  

The hole into his heart expanded, until it finally ripped apart and swallowed the whole organ out of existence, vanquishing his inner being at last. The shattering feeling of betrayal was like a thousand shards penetrating him at the same time. And his own mind, it was not helping him, it was killing him. There was no other way to describe the unbearable weight of a realization so horrendous and bleak, that was relentlessly crushing his psyche. He was enclaved by sadness. Oh, he was suffering.

Now, with his lesson learned, he would have to fend for himself among the rest of the miserable existences. For he knew there was room for faith no more, nothing to grant salvation. But the ink demon would lie in wait.

 And as once he would seek him... now he would have to hide from him. 

 

_heavens send him a guardian_


	4. Friend Or Foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you remember the person who would one day change your life forever?

He knew, he couldn’t stay there for way too long. Dry of tears and with an exhausted sigh he stood up on his feet, and finally made his way out of the wrecked booth. The collapsed fragments rattling as he walked through them. He saw for himself that the room was in pieces, so it was… pretty impressive how he was still alive and standing.

But despite of that, it was only now that his greatest nightmares had begun. This place he spent years isolated in, this sanctuary, was safe no more. Not for him. Oh he dreaded how it left him with only one option: To try and seek out a new safe spot within the depths of the studio.

As he looked around the purgatory, once again quiet, he noticed that his sheep was gone. And yet, there was nothing left of it as evidence of a successful sacrifice. No blood, no remains, not a single human stain; nothing. Only the ropes that tied it down and… the axe.

The axe was gone too.

That could only mean one thing. For some reason, bewildering and utterly unexplainable to Sammy, the ink demon had let his living offering go. The one he so lustfully seemed to desire before.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” He muttered. The confusion left him in despondency. 

 _What did Bendy want?_

Did Sammy care though? No. He decided he wanted nothing to do with Bendy. It was something that stung him, deeply, but there was simply not a chance he was going to blindly lie to himself again, chasing after a false promise made by a false god. If he did, he was frankly jumping into a trench with poisonous thorns at the bottom, that were also set on fire.

His gaze scattered across the floor of the bubbling portals that birthed searchers, before it met the open gate. He walked towards it, and his steps felt heavier than ever before. Passing through this area that he had long ago barricaded with planks, now laying broken on the floor, felt like entering another world. It was always the very same world he was living in, but going through this once forbidden path felt so, so much more different from what he was used to.

And while he thought he couldn’t be more scared than he already was, upon turning to the corner of the corridor he heard something that made him petrify in such cold, silent dread that could’ve maybe even stopped the pulse of his impaired heart.

 Shackles. Shackles and heavy footsteps, as if someone was dragging chains or some other kind of metallic driftage along the floorboards.

This.. sounded nothing like the ink demon. Sammy took a step back, and his breathing pulsed in inconsistency as the noise traveled closer and closer. From the corner finally appeared a flicker, with a beaming light bright enough to reflect on the ink person’s skin. Whatever was there, it had seen him too. 

The two beings remained idle to stare at one another. One filled with alertness, and the other with fear. He could feel his hollow sockets shaking underneath his skin as the mysterious stranger took another step forward. It appeared to be male, and he had a projector for a head. Huge cables were protruding from the back of the projector, connecting to his body. A speaker was glued right through his chest, and a cog was emerging right through his left shoulder. He was sporting no clothes other than steel boots that seemed to have fused with the rest of his body, and finally some more metallic paraphernalia. Truly a terrifying, threatening figure.

The musician gulped, a drop of cold sweat dripping down his forehead. 

 Does he run? Does he hide? 

 Either way, it was too late for him to avoid such confrontation.

With a flicker of his light, the watching eye spoke. “You’re not the one I’m looking for.” His voice coarse and grainy, sounded as if it was being transmitted through his old, worn-out speaker instead of a mouth that was simply nonexistent.

Sammy huffed. That was either relief or his fear increased. It could be both.

Who was he looking for?

The sheep? Possibly.

Had Bendy sent him? Almost certainly. 

Whatever the case, it was clear that he wasn’t there to pursue him specifically. Yet that didn’t erase the fact that he was standing in his way, and was unsure if the projectionist was going to let him pass or simply kill him and continue his search. Fragile and weaponless as he was, stripped of all his strength, he really had no chance of defending himself against him if the latter was about to occur. That was the scary feeling.

Seconds were ticking in reverse as the projectionist suddenly walked up to him and reached his hand out to grab him, leaving Sammy in a pit of fear as he curled into a ball of misery with his back against the wall. The worst was about to happen, and there was nothing he could do to stop him.

So was this how it was going to end?

If the other being could facially express emotions, one would see him bearing both surprise and confusion. But faceless as he was, the lack of expressions lingered. With the light shining upon the former prophet’s unmasked face, he could feel the grip on his neck tighten a little more, starting to suffocate him slowly. Sammy began gasping dryly for air as he meekly brought his shaking hands up to his marauder, struggling to escape what only looked like his tormenting assassination. He could already feel the weight, the force around his throat crushing his chords and his carotid, afraid that inevitably this time he would drop dead in seconds.

He kicked and flailed around in the air, continuously twisting and pulling himself from death’s hold. But the more he did, the worse it became. He tried to scream, but he could not. He simply wouldn’t let him go. 

 _“It’s the end,”_ he thought _“I’ll die alone and disgraced!”_  

But oh how wrong he was.

As if he was under hypnosis, the projectionist was taken aback by what he so unexpectedly had happened to stumble upon. Like, as if he had seen a marvel happen before him. All while he held this defenseless prey, this hopeless fucking person in his killing grasp, it wasn’t until now that he realized that he was someone who by the previous events’ standards shouldn’t be alive at this moment. He may have known nearly nothing about the ink person, but himself being the closest thing to an all-seeing eye, he knew who he was. He knew his role, he knew what happened here and what _should_ have happened to him too. And yet here he was, breathing and in one piece.  

Could he believe it? He had seen many strange things in his post-human lifetime, but a survivor from the ink demon was not present in his memory. This thought alone was mind-boggling, and backfired his standard intentions like nothing ever had before.

Should he...? 

A decision beyond unforeseen was then made. His grasp loosened, allowing Sammy to finally break free from this deathtrap with a robust push. To the victim it might have seemed like a brief moment of physical weakness from the projectionist’s side, but in reality, his life had been spared. And in this fallen kingdom, nobody was really meant to spare anyone.

They exchanged a final glance. The one, flummoxed. The other, terrified.

There were no words to be said. Sammy fled forward as fast as his tired legs could allow him without tripping and breaking his limbs, vanishing from his sight in an instant. There was only one single thought coursing his mind in this moment:

_Run, run, run!_

He took one last look behind as he raced through the hallway, his heart racing with him. There was no trace of the stranger going after him, but his agony wasn’t over. He kept running, a sign of hope finally present as he reached the very end of his path. A door.

He stopped. Knowing that, after going past it there was no return to this segment. But no reason to return to it either.

From now on, he existed for himself. He existed to survive.

It creaked silently as he opened, entered and closed it. Beside a shelf stacked up with felt cartoon dolls there was a doorframe leading to another path. Walking through, pipes pumping full of ink arranged on the walls, leaking barrels placed on the left side. And in the end, just before the way extended to the left, the was a plate on the wall reading ‘LIFT’.

One exit, numerous branches, endless possibilities.

He was truly left to his own devices. 

* * *

   Safe, for now.

With his worrying thoughts gone, even if not for too long, he could take a moment to calm down so that he could process everything that happened, and everything else that he may need to be prepared to face.

As the elevator began its journey with him inside, one new and yet so peculiar thought emerged for him to wonder.

   _Who was this stranger?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. (I want to make clear that in this AU Norman hasn't lost all of his humanity, he is autonomous, has an actual character and is able to behave like any other person unlike his primal and feral canon version.)
> 
> 2\. (I'm going on vacation in two days for about two weeks and I will have nothing but my phone with me. As a heads up, there might be a chance I won't be able to continue writing until I return. I'll try my best to do so, but if you don't see me posting for a while it'll probably be because I can't write whole chapters properly on a phone lol.)


	5. In The Hands Of Superior Figures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallen angels and shattered memories. They torment you. But if you look around enough, a helping hand awaits.

He was always surrounded by silence. Only this time, the continuous ambiance of an old cage was there to accompany him as he descended away from his once lair. 

On his rush he must have neglected to notice which button did he press, where did he chose to go. He was unsure too. What kind of fool locks themselves in an elevator if they don't clearly know where they're going? This question becomes less simple once you realize the person who's being criticized for doing so has far less options than you have. In this case, the answer is 'one that is running for their life'. 

_ding!_

The rusty door of metal opened wide before him, allowing him out of momentary safety and back into the hellscape where his fight for survival would continue.

Sammy looked around only to be greeted by one of the cartoon demon's statues. His sockets squinted in remorse, and he turned his head away. The idols that he once embraced, he now hated. It was beyond comprehension how quickly something built within the span of a lifetime can crumble into nothingness in a blink of an eye. That was what he realized upon looking at images of the one that he once called "his Lord". But he knew for sure, it was certainly better than coming across the entity himself. And God was he doomed if that happened.

Turning around, the sign beside him read "LEVEL 11". A scratch with his hand on the back of his head indicated that very little did he remember how to navigate here. Yet his first thought upon arriving was to seek for resources. His deprived, tired body could wear down really quickly it he didn't take care of it. Perhaps if he was lucky, he could find some bacon soup laying around. There was an open hallway in front of him to explore, but he thought it would be wiser to check the door on his right first. It appeared to be some sort of closet.

To his surprise, it wasn't a closet, but it was still hiding a pleasant surprise. Not what his priorities instructed, not even consumable or aiding to his journey ahead, but something to help him carry on nevertheless. A reminder that there was still room for some happiness in this barren place.

A set of musical instruments were laid out in the lobby, all untouched and well-preserved. Piano, bass, banjo, violin, drum; He could just feel the notes align with the beat of his heart only by looking at them. The lonely instruments were beckoning him to play a song, and as much as he had more important concerns at the moment, an artist can never resist the call of their own passion.  
  
Sammy walked through and picked up the dusty banjo gently, holding it like it were his own inanimate child. He always treated instruments with most care, even if they weren't his own. There was definitely an emotional bond with his musical passion, one that despite how much he had suffered and broken, wouldn't leave him. His digits strummed the strings softly, making the man smile and encouraging him to play vague notes for a few seconds. The notes soon turned into a nearly fully fledged melody, one that the ink person recalled from long, long ago. It was probably one of the only things that were reminiscent of his past. And it were enough to fill his heart with a strangely melancholic delight, if only for such a short, short moment in his painfully aimless existence.

"Practicing for your audience? It's such a shame no one's coming to see you today."  
  
All of the sudden, he stopped and stood absolutely still, an eerie chill crawling on his spine as he recognized the voice that pierced through the floor. A deep, seductive, feminine voice.

_It's her._

"I see... Another one of the demon's pawns roaming my grounds. I am not suprised to see the little wretches do that. But you, Lawrence? Haven't they told you? Wandering is a terrible, terrible sin..." Her words echoed through the speakers once more, followed by a playful, and yet oh so spiteful chuckle.

Sammy placed the instrument back in its place, for he was in no position to mess with Alice. If she could hear him, he did not dare to answer her. Although his memory didn't hold up to much, he knew that he was terrified of her for a reason. She may look like an angel. But much like Bendy himself, she was a very cruel being. Like a black widow, they say whoever gets trapped in her web never comes back. She was a mad scientist who made experiments out of the broken souls around her, torturing them to their full potential, vainly hoping to achieve the perfect self-image. She was the queen of insanity.  
  
He glanced back at the entrance of the elevator, spoting a swollen searcher dulling in front of it with the edge of his squinting socket. The searchers rarely ever attacked their inky brother, but today nothing seemed to go right for him, didn't it? The loss of choices was present again. And with a grunt, displeased and uneasy, he decided to only move forward.

He took the stairs and got going, wherever fate may take him. The angel stopped talking to him after his absense of an answer. Perhaps she didn't even anticipate one, rather than... simply gave him a warning.

Sammy kept following the staircase to heaven -a metaphoric way to say he was heading to the higher floors-. No heaven down here, only hell, home of the fallen.

Once he set foot on level K, he felt like he was starting to distance himself more from her. And his instincts were somewhat right. As he escalated yet another set of stairs, he happened to walk past a Striker, who lowered its look as it limped from slope to slope. What he saw was just another clone, but he was able to feel its misery and worry. The kind of worry of knowing there is an omnipotent tyrrant looming above you. He crept past the blocked bathrooms, and into the massive hole punched through the wall. It was kind of unsettling if you thought about it, what could have possibly torn concrete and metal so easily? Maybe that was a question for another day. And past the shelves he went. Abandoned little cartoon dolls sitting in there, awaiting no one. The felt that comprised them, all dusty and withered. Much like the entire studio after all.

* * *

  _One minute._  
  
He stopped. Finding himself into a room filled with ink. But not quite just filled, no... It was.. covered, completely. The room was drowning in blackness.  
  
_drowning in blackness_  
  
_**drowning in blackness** _  
  
...  
  
And now he was drowning, too.  
  
Piercing, incoherent cries plundered his ears as his vision twisted reality itself before him. His feet submerged under the ink, and becoming one with it. He felt himself going down, down, down... God, he was melting. Sammy gasped for air as his heart struggled to keep him from dying of utter shock, and for his sake he desperately tried to reach onto an object to hold on. But everything seemed so far away from him. It was only him, the darkness, and the screams.

The room was getting smaller and smaller, he felt trapped in the ink.  
As if he was being dragged and engulfed back into the womb he came from. The torturous voices got louder, among them he could hear his own.

But it wasn't him.

It was another him.  
  
His head arched backwards, vertigo washing through him.   
  
Was he dying? 

* * *

 Gone. Everything was gone. No screams, no voices, no sights; nothing. Panting, his sockets wide open, only to realize the room was back to how it was before he stepped in here. In fact, nothing had ever changed. None of that was real. But no, it  _felt_ so damn real, didn't it?

He looked down at his own dripping hands, he looked at them and knew he was alive. Was this all a twisted fragment of his imagination? A vision?...a flashback? He didn't understand. His world grew darker as he thought, that he soon might not be able to trust even his mind.  
  
Although patently left in dread from what he experienced, he had to press on. Past Alice Angel's singing booth, past the toy machine. The more he moved forward, the more familiar was all of this starting to look. He must have been here sometime before...? If he remembered correctly, soon after the Heavenly Toys section, there must be some sort of a safehouse lying just ahead. And he was almost certain that nothing could stop him from heading there now. The trail seemed clear. 

But sometimes the biggest deceiver in the universe can be one's own eyes.

 Just as he was about to turn around the corner to the staircase, he noticed a bright light.

And then...

 _fear._  
  
A gasp escaped his mouth as he flinched. _"No, no, no no not again-"_ He mumbled under a distressed breath, ready to run back at any moment. This damned light scrutinizing the area, was none other than the projectionist.  
  
Sammy, shaking, could do nothing as the rays engulfed the surface of his oily skin despite the cover from behind the wall he was standing. And the light's host was now staring right back at him.

Coldness struck him as the same grainy voice called him.

"Don't run."

No, he didn't trust him. But what would happen if he _did_ ran? He would rather not risk finding out. So instead of toying around with him, he had no choice but to do as told. An aching wish to flee was clogging his chest, turning into a gulp that rolled up and back down again from his throat. He.. stood absolutely still.

The other being then let his arm rest in the air between them, and a gesture was made. A gesture, wordless, but with the intent to speak in place of a voice. A gesture saying "come here".  
  
Sammy came out of his hiding spot, coyly and void of a word. He noticed that the projectionist was holding something in the other hand. But he never had the gall to break contact with his incadescent light, that even expressionless, seemed to stare back at him sternly. They exchanged gazes for what seemed too long, as if they were having a staring contest. Except they weren't. 

He finally stepped forward, ignorant of how the other man never stopped cowering in his presence. Once he was close enough, he stretched his hand towards the ink person, but this time nor to grab him nor to strangle him.

And then something changed.  
  
Sammy recognized the object he was holding immediately, just from the mere shape of it. A circular cardboard cutout, curving inwards at the top to form the 'horns', with a hole punched in it's 'mouth'. A rubber band was attached to it, most likely to be held in place around someone's head. He tip-toed towards him, and reached his hand out, grabbing his mask. Finally, he had it back. Did he still want it? Probably not. He left it back to rot with the room's remnants. On purpose. But thanks to the stranger, he... he had it back.

 He shifted his cold, inky palm on the cutout, feeling its worn texture. The ink person was baffled, realizing that, although attempting to kill him prior, he considered returning him his abandoned belonging. Why did he do that? 

He brought his gaze up to his radiating light, and wonder overtook fear. Knowing he not only had been spared and pitied by a relentless killer, but gifted too. _"Why?"_ He asked himself, and the question was driving him crazy. It made him feel something so forgotten, so new. During all his ink-ridden life he had accepted the blessing of none but the ink demon's, his abhorrent majesty. All until today. He hated, no, he  _loathed_  it. The feelings that reasoned within him, along with accepting the stranger's gift, they felt very wrong. But the glimpse of humanity deep into his empty shell was enough to take the wheel, if only for this moment. 

He parted his lips, and his words came out so faintly, so soft-spokenly that he hardly ever believed he uttered them himself.

"Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Good news guys, I figured I can very well write on mobile, so I'll still be writting during holidays! In addition, I post from my phone so sorry if the texts ends up looking weird.)


	6. More Than A Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the greatest of threats lie either just underneath our feet, or just above our heads.

Restrained in a chamber that seemed to never end, a machine of both marvels and tragedies never ceased to travel but in always two directions. That was either up, or down. Behind the metallic fence they watched as the monumental structure was slowly descending to the depths of what no one knew, forever held by its massive chains.

_klunk, klunk, klunk, klunk..._

_thump, thump, thump..._

 

The sounds it emmited, echoing throughout the walls of the studio forevermore. The cranking chains and the continuous thumping. They travelled farther and farther than the ink itself, immortal blood enhanced with black magic, seeping through every corner and every crack on its path.

The projectionist's light flickered on its sight, as if he blinked. "Do you see that?"

Sammy never took his gaze off of the colossal atrocity. "...this is the Ink Machine." He lisped. His voice was filled with awe and, something. Something like fear, but worse.

"That's right. It's connected to every pipe, like a system. Ye'r could say its the studio's heart... and it's womb too. It birthed and keeps birthing what we see. You, me, everyone and everythin' else. Can you believe that at the same time, it can destroy us all?" The other added, in wonder himself. If this studio was a battlefield, he was a deeply scarred veteran amongst countless of untrained soldiers who had never seen the face of war like he had. And yet, even someone like him was scared of this dying structure's very core, the machine that manifested it all. 

Together they watched. The chains never stopped moving, as if the Ink Machine was heading down to hell itself.

"This machine hasn't been running for a long time. That until... he arrived."

Sammy gasped, a hand moving to his chest. "He...? Bendy?!" It sounded like a wild guess, but he believed he was very much correct about it. However it turned out it was not but a guess indeed. A guess that was far from the reality in front of them, and the projectionist knew enough to confirm so. "No, no. The man from the surface." 

"The.. sheep...?"

Such an unexpected expectation.

A question lingered over the musician's head yet still. Why? Why was this any of his- of _their_ concern? And as if the projectionist could hear his thoughts, the speaker that his chest bore began to convey his words again. "When the Ink Machine is on... he returns to his kingdom. He had done so the first time, I'm sure _you_ would know. After our rebirth and the shutdown, we had some peace for a while."

Peace as he speaked of it was a word without the context as we know it. A short period of the ink demon's absense, so that the victims of this studio's inevitable fate would adapt to their new, timeless lives of anguish until the day of his return.

"But now; as long as it is on, his permanence lingers. And that.. that ain't good for us. You see he always had the upper hand. Unfortunately, we now have more chances than ever of falling into his claws as... disposables."

The words crawled like infesting insects on Sammy's back. _"Disposables."_ He repeated in a whisper. A word so short and mere that explained it all. It weren't his lifelong prayers neither his bloodstained hands that led Bendy to him. It was the demon's own thirst, the machine's call to him granting him he shall once again feast on these trapped souls. The man who once was a prophet was even proven to be nothing all along.

"It... hurts." An unusually heavy gloom was present in his soft voice. For a moment he felt exactly the way he did when his faith crumbled to dust the first time. "To hurt is common here, I'm afraid." Replied the projectionist, past seconds of a brief silence. And it was something everybody knew. It would be a blantant lie to say that the old light head hadn't inflictited pain himself upon others. He had taken many lives. But, Sammy had as well. A lot less in comparison, yet it was of the same sin. Everybody hurt, and everybody had hurted. Everybody was a prey, and everybody was a predator. Every being was a burden to another. But in an inky kingdom where only the fittest are meant to survive, what other choices could one have? 

He only glanced at him once, and swore he caught the sight of a silent single tear rolling from his socket to his cheek, and down to his jaw. But he was not under any state of physical pain. No, his pain; it was from the inside, it seemed. It... struck the projectionist how someone could cry due to feeling something, and not by simply suffering. It was someting he did not recall seeing or doing himself. He may have known the ink person's face, but his mind was a huge mystery. And still, he was once again reminded how he was standing alive beside him.

"...But you survived. Be glad." 

Sammy had nothing to respond with to such thought-provoking words. The ambiance took over the room as the machine continued its never-ending journey into the abyss. He stood still next to him, clutching his Bendy mask, that was although without his command back into the hands of its rightful owner. 

The silence sparked an unbearable curiosity of his that was present from the start.

"Why...? Why did you..?"

A 'why' was looming over his head and it was a single word that anticipated multiple explanations. The projectionist seemed to have gone out of his way more than once just to be within the ink person's presense. He must have had reasons for that. He must have had... motives.

"You aren't the first 'disciple' that he betrayed. I have seen it happen, again and again. Blind, they follow the path of the demon. And once they fulfill their purpose, he takes them all, one by one. None have survived.

...None but you."

Sammy began to realize something. It was not weakness that made the projectionist let go off him back in the purgatory. _He did it on purpose._

A furrow of his brow was a sign of surprise and suspicion: mistrust. 

"You... you let me go? What do you want from me?"

The projectionist remained silent for seconds, and Sammy's frown intensified to form a now even more perplexed expression. Instead of having his questions answered, he only began to have more of them pile up. Sometimes silence was just so, so loud and violent.

The other one knew the answer wouldn't be simple at all. But he could not have gone all this way to find him and yet choose to remain silent about his purpose. Even as a risk, he decided that to give it a try was better than letting his only chance in a while go beyond his control. So he had nothing more to wait for than speak up.

 "I want you to join me."

 And oh how rancid was his denial.

Sammy gritted his teeth with a flinch. "You're insane!" 

Off to a disastrous start.

"I'm not going to be played like that again, I don't trust no god... and I don't trust no man!"

As he turned his back on him to run, the projectionist snatched him as quick and fiercely as a hurricane tears a tree from its roots no matter how hard they cling inside the ground. "Damn it, listen to me!" He gripped his shoulders tighly enough to frighten him. He had left him with no other choice but to be brutally honest with him.

"Believe me, _I would kill you, **I WOULD KILL YOU!** " _His voice rose, but it was not to threaten. "You fucking fool, don't ya realize? They're all eating one another. Now that you're not on his side, they'll tear you limb from limb. And trust me, ye'r not gonna last for long if you just keep wanderin' around bare as you are. All of them are out to get the weak. Weak like you!"

A tiny pause lingered between the restless souls. A fragment of their timeless lives, so short, yet so long, like an endless battle between the true and the untrue. But before he could continue, like a vulture, a voice familiar to both yet foreign to the conversation spoke to them from above.

"Ooh boys, keep it quiet now; won't you? You know... I don't appreciate such inconveniences in my home. You know that, _Norman_."

The projectionist grunted, blaming himself for forgetting they were still in her territory. He had power yes, unlike Sammy, but she... She was not to be toiled with.

"...The angel is trouble. We need to move."

But as the winds of change had hit them from behind so suddenly, Sammy was caught off guard. Maybe by his violent approach, maybe by Alice's interruption, but mostly by something else. "W-wait!" In short breath and shock he called out, yet the stranger had already began moving. It was all happening too fast. Catching up with him was his safest choice, but this time, he found a reason too.

* * *

 He shut the door of the safehouse behind them both, isolating them from the dangers lurking in the rest of the studio. For as long as they were inside at least. "I guess we're both stuck here now anyway." 

His light turned to look at him.

"Unless you'd much rather love to get out there again."

Sammy, sitting with his back on a wall some feet apart from him, shook his head in denial, saying nothing. He really was left with no other choice but to stay with the projectionist. He couldn't trust him, but for one of the things he talked about, he was right. Sammy was fucked out there. 

As they were left to sit in silence, with a few seconds to spare so they could calm down from their hurry, he remembered what Alice said. How she referred to the watching eye. He sighed, and ever so hesitantly he allowed his sockets to make contact with his lens.

"You're Norman...?"

And he indeed, going by that name, had been surprised by the ink person once again. "I see. So you've heard of me."

Sammy shook his head. "No... I haven't. But your name, I... it.." Norman, Norman, _who was Norman?_ The name did not match the projectionist he had in front of him this whole time, neither did he remember the person with such identity. But he remembered that it meant something, that the one who responded to it used to be someone from his old existence. Sohearing it after years revoked something that was burried deep within his subconscious. His next words, coming out quiet as nearly a whisper, were filled with thousands of contradicting emotions.

_"I used to know a Norman."_

The projectionist was intrigued. Whatever he was speaking about, it was something that he could unfortunately not recall himself. For the first time, someone else besides Bendy and Alice -figures that beheld power- seemed to know something that he did not. Only one assumpion he could make to possibly justify his knowledge. "Do you have memories from the mortal lifetime?"

And Sammy nodded. "Vague ones."

Something strange happened then. Among the tension, the cold, the cruel, among the pipes pumping and the ink dripping, was heard a chuckle.

"That's amazing."

 Sammy's glimmering face was perplexed by the reaction; almost scared. It wasn't done in a manner of spite he then realized, no. Norman seemed to be genuinely impressed by his words. And that, more or less, made his worried expression loosen and form into a subtle smile. And little did he realize.

However this brief sight of positivity faded quickly as once again the silence dominated around them. He knew he was with a Norman, someone he used to know; but he did not trust. A Norman that might have been a friend in a previous life, but was a stranger in this eternity. To know that was... very unnerving. But with what little choices he had, he was at least willing to try; try and see if he could get along with him if this was truly his only chance to keep his life. The next day and the days after were going to be very different for him. Adapting, conforming, to something entirely new. Their pitiful fate had forced them to declare themselves a team, which really didn't feel like one yet. The projectionist knew this was foreign to the ink person, and noticing his silence he could tell his psyche was no better than before. He could do little to contribute to this other than try and get to know him.

And that was exactly what he would do.  

 "Tell me. What should I call you?" 

Him, currently drifting in the sea of his thoughts, returned his gaze with a quizzical tilt of his head.

"I know who you are in here, but nothin' else besides that. You do have a name of your own, don't ya?" 

The musician's chest ached almost every time he spoke to him. A clear sign of how difficult it was for him to get involved in something he was so afraid of. But as he had consented into staying with him, he had to accept his own choice and whatever came with it. A monotone sigh escaped his lungs. 

"Sammy. Sammy Lawrence."

Norman stayed silent for enough seconds for him to add a desired question along with his introduction.

"Does it remind you of anything?"

...

"No. But it fits you." 

* * *

 Inside a cell of safety surrounded by the darkest evils remain two beings, left to face the entire world with their own devices.

A machine of horrors is thumping in the distance to remind them that their struggle is and will only be eternal. A machine so extraordinary, it once transformed a studio into a hellscape, and hundreds of innocents into cursed shells of their remnants. 

 The machine that brought Him back.


	7. Symbiosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being around people that share a situation with us, whether that be a blessing or misfortune, can bring out the good in us.

He lifted the weight of his dark, cold eyelids as a tune echoed throughout his withering mind, allowing himself to return to reality. But as he woke this 'tune' turned into something unpleasant, monotone, repeating. A noise.  
  
_tick_  
_tock_  
_tick_  
_tock_  
  
 Sammy shifted his tired head upwards to face the source of this nuisance, this awful sound that so unfairly woke him up. A grin as innocently blissful but at the same moment as hellishly malicious met the broken man's gaze, turning it into a frown. He had never felt so judged by an inanimate object before. Or perhaps he had, but not under the same tone. He looked at it, and it looked back at him. The Bendy clock would cheerfully sway its limbs to and fro eternally. It probably didn't mind. 

No numbers. Just tiny dots, arranged with such precise behind the old, slightly shattered glass on the clock. Tracing an endless cycle. Almost nobody would have a problem reading this clock, despite it lacking numbers, as their brain would replace the dots with the numbers in the order it already recognized. He tried it. After all these years in isolation, and... it was only that moment when he realized, he had forgotten how to tell time.  
  
_Terrifying, isn't it?_

To know how many human mannerisms you can neglect, to the point you can no longer recall them. Even something as simple as counting time. Every little trace of social display, of one's own human nature, just vanishing one after the other until you would be nothing but an inky, instinctive creation without meaning or willpower. That fate, he was afraid of meeting the most besides death.

To lose who he was entirely.

 For his own sake, he decided it was time to get up instead of letting intrusive thoughts get the best of him. The fabric of his suspenders grated against the hammock's as he moved, feet landing on the ground safely. He grabbed his shoes that himself had set beside the chest prior to resting, and wore them on to start his 'day'.  
  
Body and mind still aching, he made his way into the hallway and then the kitchen. He stopped in surprise to see the other man sitting there with hands on the table, completely idle. For how long had Norman been up? He had to be up, there was light coming off of his projector, and yet he didn't seem to be occupied with anything. Hesitantly, Sammy walked inside. The projectionist's gaze altered to look at him with complete lack of ability to form an expression, hence making him a bit more nervous.

Slowly, silently, he walked up to the table and sat on the other end, facing him on the other side. Norman, slightly surprised, greeted him accordingly. "Huh, up already I see." Sammy jerked a tiny smile in response, one that faded quicker than a tide washing up on the shore. "Yes. It was... nice to get some sleep." Although he missed this feeling already. He tried to get a bit more comfortable on his chair, with his elbows against the table's surface while resting his head on his hand. No words were really exchanged between the two after this. Not that something like that was needed at the moment. The aura though was definitely anything but warm for either of them. 

Soon enough, Sammy did not fail to notice the can of bacon soup beside Norman. It was unopened, unconsumed, and immediately reminded him of how much he was starving. His lonely sockets were glued to the can, craving it like a stray cat was craving a few leftovers of a dinner's disposal. Norman wasn't having any of it either. He was only guarding this edible just by simply being there, an average canned product that was yet a manna in a barren hell where most of one's options are feeding off of corpses and remnants. Almost as if his overpowering existence was mocking the ink person's hunger, crushing his hopes to fill his empty stomach. 

He thought, maybe he could just ask for it. But no. Too early, too soon. Such a move would be too bold and intimate for the current elements of what had barely started to look like some kind of symbiosis. He saw himself as enough of a burden to the projectionist. If he started leeching off of what he could provide to him so soon... he feared his life would be at stake once again. Welcomed, yet by force, into someone else's world, and still treated with what seemed like such unfathomable generosity. For he had done nothing to earn this mercy of simply being allowed to coexist with someone who could easily tear him into pieces. To him this newfound concept was surreal.

 He took a deep breath and tried his best to suppress his aching hunger. He could find food himself. Maybe. Later. Eventually. But for now, he was not going to ask Norman for anything.  
  
A quiet hum escaped his mouth to fill the silence surrounding them. His artistic side would often show when he was bored. His humming though was clearly audible, and Norman, who sat right in front of him, observed this with a hint of interest. "What is that you sing, anyway?".

The inky figure silenced and picked his gaze up, terribly realizing he had broken, or perhaps even disturbed the projectionist's silence. But what made him feel even worse was that he now became aware of the tune he had been humming unwittingly. He thought it would be easy to abandon this. And yet here he was. Vocally repeating the psalm that he not too long ago vowed to himself he would never sing again.

"It's the old song." He told him. And then his voice was filled with so much shame upon confession. "I wrote it a long ago.. for... him......"  
  
Cold, dead silence overtook. Perhaps he shouldn't have said too much, some things are not meant to be said. He wished the Earth would crack open and swallow him whole as he curled a bit into his chair in discomfort. The guilt was very evident in both his facial expression and his body language, and Norman could see it. But he was not vindictive in the slightest. In fact, if only he could, he would smile with a hint of intrigue. "Sounds pretty calm for its sinister purpose."

He could never read the inner scheme within his head, but he could very well tell that he was not wicked nor did he have ill intentions in this newly formed partnership. Hell, he was basically forced into it and stayed just in hopes of avoiding his demise. Maybe under Bendy's wings he could have been truly cruel, and his passive side had shown simply because he possessed no power anymore. Or maybe, there could truly be a gentle soul trapped underneath this disfigured, dripping black prison known as 'Sammy'. It was a thought that he never pictured himself wondering about anyone. But the old light head was a broken man too.  
  
His illuminating vision turned to Sammy's presence, again, who now had silenced after being 'forgiven' for his confession. Funny how this man's frame was significantly smaller than the projectionist's, but the shadow falling behind him was huge enough to nealy fill the wall behind him. All because how greatly bright the light that fell on him was. It certainly was blinding, and yet Sammy seemed unbothered. His hollow dark sockets were insensitive it seemed. What mystified Norman the most though was how his gaze was once again so set on this soup can, making him realize that he must have endured an unknown to him amount of deprivation. 

Something about seeing him starve before his own eyes irked him deep within. A decreased amount of selfishness allowed him to make the move Sammy was so afraid to make on his own. He sighed.  
  
"Hey, ya want this?"  
  
The ink person perked up to look at him in confusion, followed by surprise. "Aren't you going to have it?"

He shook his head to deny so. "I was going to, but you seem to need it more." And before he could get another word from him, he moved a hand to the top of the can, opening the metallic lid with such ease before sliding it across the table and over to him. "Here ya go."

Sammy said nothing, because he was at loss of words by this move of what could only be determined as genuine kindness. It nearly felt wrong, and he saw no reason to accept this no matter how terribly he needed it. However denying a gift was a blasphemy, he had come to learn. And this was not about who he used to worship, but, rather his very own religious nature itself. So as long as the projectionist wanted to be a giver, he would have no choice but to be the receiver. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, Bendy used to reward him too whenever he appeased him. Except that now, he had nothing to be rewarded for. Was this some twisted kind of bait, or maybe, true sympathy? 

Emotions and instincts collided. The longer he stared at the bacon soup the more his brain urged him to fulfill what only was a natural need as soon as he could, yet feeling wrong on the other hand. And thankfully, acceptance followed. He took the can in his hands and brought it close to his mouth, sipping from it quietly. It was a dense, raw substance, stale; but vital. He gulped away while chewing the chunks of bacon swimming in the way. Norman sat to patiently watch, never really judging his manners or the action itself. He was somewhat glad to see him in comfort, it brought him an odd kind of peace.  
  
Soon he was done with it, and seemed pleasantly well-fed. A state he finally achieved after days of deprivation, and could now freely cherish. Strangely, a fragment of security was set within him as he placed the -now empty- can on the table. Though he didn't cease to be skeptical, he had to show gratefulness. "Thank you.. You really didn't need to do this you know."

Norman shrugged apathetically. "Eh, there's a lot of bacon soup sitting around this studio." And yet, he spoke in such a honest and welcoming tone. "Remember, we have to share as long as you remain on my side." 

It was a reassuring yet unnerving responsibility. Symbiosis meant that Sammy would also need to be a giver, and if not now, at least at some point. 'To share' was the kind of commitment that required trust; something they did not yet have for one another. 

"I... I get it." A simple, non leering answer.

And suddenly Norman stood up. "Then I guess we're ready to move on."

Just as he seemed to have found some momentary peace, Sammy was pillaged by the winds of change once more. His hollow dents were looking up at the projectionist who now seemed more than ready to leave, mouth gaping open just slightly. "But you- you said we're safe here."

"Indeed we are." Norman confirmed in advance. "But we can't stay in hide forever."

Obviously. And Sammy could argue not. No one can truly stay in one place forever. Maybe if infinite patience was achievable, but the problem was that everything they needed was out there, right next to the dangers they should be prepared to avoid. Sammy knew he was safe within this spot, enough to try and convince Norman to leave him behind. If only, that was just a happy thought. Neither of them could in fact be sure that, although this place was a reliable sanctuary, could keep anyone from harm completely. Despite the lack of trust, he feared separation. With what was out there, he was not fit to wander by himself within so many halls and paths he had long ago forgotten.

"..Right." He too, stood up from his chair. "Where are we heading?"

"To get you a weapon."

 _At last_ , the ink person thought. He knew he could at least have some of his freedom back if he was armed; at least enough to not be entirely dependent on Norman's strength and presence alone. The thought gave him courage to leave the safehouse this time, and thus help subside a portion of his fears eventually.

He followed Norman to the door, only for him to give him a cautious look. "Y'er better stay behind me, don't want you dying before you even get to defend y'er own ass."

And as the old door creaked open to let them out, the other nodded. "Don't worry; I shall."

 Trust is _earned_ , with patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1. For those who don't know I have a tumblr, where I keep updates for this fic, draw Sammy and Norman (from this AU mostly), as well as lots of BATIM fanart and other things!  
> Here it is, check it out if you're interested in more stuff from me! Support is appreciated!! **https://ufopilots.tumblr.com/** )
> 
> (2. I am back from holidays and now have access on my PC again! That being said, I will be going to the previous chapters to fix some typos, etc. Nothing big, just minor updates.)


	8. Crucifixion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how fate can change. Once you were a prophet, now you are a lamb to the slaughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1. This is my longest chapter yet, with over 3000 words. I was split between making it two separate parts or keep it together as a whole, I decided it fits better as one thing. Hope you're prepared cause it's violent too! This fic doesn't have an archive warning for nothing.)
> 
> (2. I drew how Sammy and Norman look in this AU! I have dropped a few canons into the fic but have this is a clear visual reference. https://ufopilots.tumblr.com/post/176737712757/doodle-this-is-how-sammy-and-norman-in-my-inwt )

"Oh no, it's-"

"...closed shut."

The two beings stared in sheer confusion upon a dead end, blocking the way ahead of them completely. Only into the very beginning of their search, they seemed to have come across a strange obstacle.

 "Correct me if I'm wrong but, didn't we walk through this gate before?" Sammy remarked, not a lie into his words. Because that was exactly what they had done. It used to be open.

A disappointed grunt came out of the projectionist's speaker. "I'm afraid Alice must have closed it off afterwards." He knew a lot to be sure of that. He knew _her._ "This girl... she's trouble I'm tellin' ya." An emphasis on the angel being troublesome, and that being the second time he had made a note about it. 

Well, a blocked off path meant they would need to improvise instead. After a few seconds of silence Norman pointed his light to the lower of the wall on their left, his attention caught by an opening that seemed to lead to a ventilation system, located right next to an ink pipe. It sure was not much but, at least _one_ of them could definitely fit to go through it.

"Sammy."

A dreadful sigh escaped his breath. "...I'm, not a mechanic. I know what you're thinking but-"

"No no, it's not that. I can't fit in there."

The musician blinked, realizing that indeed this was not an excuse Norman was using to make him do the work for him. With his massive build, he truly couldn't wander the vents. He kind of... felt sorry almost. "That's alright." he accepted, "I'll go."

"You do that. In the meantime, I'll try t'see if I can break it okay?"

"Break the.. gate?"

"Yeh. I'm sure you've noticed this place is falling apart."

He nodded, although he had a feeling that would probably be impossible. But what do you know, Norman seemed to be one step ahead of him.

As he crouched and began to crawl into the darkness, the projectionist stayed behind to shine his light on him, as far as it could reach to aid in guiding his path. But as eventually it reached its very limit, they both knew that their paths were splitting from this point and on. A spark of worry emanated from them both upon segregation. How strange it was, that even though their senses of trust were low at best, they still felt uneasy about leaving one another to their own.

* * *

It was three minutes into wading in the complete unknown, until he began to see a brightly lit room in the distance behind metallic blinds. It was awfully familiar, but he would never know for sure until he got out. A little faster this time, he crawled to the source of light until he could grab the blockage and push it out to finally see where his path took him.

He exited the vent and looked around. He was standing just in front of the doll storage area, at the end of the hall connecting it and that horrible room of melting ink that previously gave him very unpleasant visions.

 He had passed this area twice before -once back when he was lost and second when he and Norman fled to safety-. But this time, coming across a familiar path was not relieving in the slightest.

"You got to be kidding me..." He muttered under his breath, already sounding fed up due to the fact that he realized that he had taken the wrong way. It was logical, the vents were a whole branching system; but in complete darkness it was not his fault that he ended up losing his way. Since he had not taken this possibility into account, he was unsure whether or not to go back and seek for something he may have skipped, or simply return to Norman and tell him the truth: that this task was nearly impossible to execute.

The moment he needed to think about it in silence was snatched from him just like a crow snatches a mouse on a summer hunt. 

 _"Darling, you're walking uninvited into my adobe again!"_  

* * *

   _thump_  
_thump  
_ _crash!_

 "Urgh, blasted thing!"

Norman blurted out various profanities with all his fingers griping between merely a slit of the giant pieces of iron that held the gate shut. By landing so many hits on it with only his fists, he had managed to curve it inwards enough to create a gaping space that would allow himself to grasp both the sides from the center and push with all his might to divide them. Just a little more oomph and...!

"Ahh...There we go."

He panted a bit with his arm's muscles twitching underneath his skin like a fish out of the water. He put on a lot of effort into opening the gate, and -even if he made a bit of noise in the process- he had succeeded. However Sammy's prolonged silence had began to worry him. Even if he didn't find a way to open it manually before he'd try breaking it, his presence  _should_ at least still be audible inside the vent.

He shined his light into the square cut once more, calling out his name.

"Sammy!" Never an answer.

"I opened it, y'er can come back and let's go!" Never a soul.

...

 _"Sammy?"_  

* * *

 He jumped right out of his skin as he felt her call, this time not above him, but... behind him.

His eyelids quivered as, frozen solid in his stance, he stared at the angel opposing him in the very end of the hallway. It almost seemed like some kind of lucid dream, it had to be years since the last time he saw her in her full physical presence from head to toe. Except from half of her face, her form was still so serene and intact; unlike him, just another man of dripping ink.

There was a hostile aura all around since the moment their gazes locked. Bad descended to worse, as recklessly she began to walk towards him. Chest forward and arms resting behind her, heels moving one in front of the other elegantly, femininely, with authority. Truly, she walked like she owned this place. A smile as calm as the breeze on a peachy afternoon was formed all across her face, from the flawless to the deformed side.

She stopped, feet away from the ink person.

He backed up a bit. "A-Alice..! I wasn't here to-"

"To harm me? Ah, what a gentleman. I always knew it Sammy. I always knew there was some good in you." Her tone this time was more sweet, delicate, friendly.

... And yet so incredibly counterfeit.

Her relaxed smile morphed into a judging glare as she placed a hand on her hip, the other still behind her. "I thought I warned you to stay away. And yet you keep dragging yourself to my feet again?"

Sammy had no clue of what to say in response, there was no way he could justify his presence in a place he was clearly not accepted in. He had winded up here by accident after all. He wondered though, even if Norman was with him, would this encounter still be inevitable? Was she patrolling and caught him by pure chance, or was she out actually seeking them? Was it them, or somebody else even? Regardless, none of this mattered. He was alone this time. He had to be cautious.

His gaze drifting across her body to investigate, he noticed how she kept one hand on her back from the beginning. Something was going on here for sure.

He remembered what Norman had told him:

_"This girl... she's trouble I'm tellin' ya."_

_...careful now._

"Look into _my eyes_  you filthy scum, I asked you a question!" And she demanded he answered too.

He blinked. Words were trying to come out of his twitching lips but, they were only falling to the floor. As if they were useless. "A-..Alice I...."

He seemed lost.

And yet she took his absence of an answer as an act of defiance.

"I see..." She smirked. 

_"Oh you must have a death wish."_

 Sammy gasped in terror at the sight of a trenchant blade being drawn from behind her back, only a split second after her words.

"Gah- not today you wench!" He panted as he grabbed her wrist mid-air, the tip of her blade hovering inches away from his chest.

"Then when?!" She growled full of spite, and wrapped her free hand around his throat to strangle him, her eyes blazing with ire to look up at him. Sammy was overcome by a clash of shock that immediately turned into alertness, coughing, chocking as she blocked his airway. He brought his free hand up too in an attempt to break her grasp on his throat, all while struggling to keep the other hand from stabbing him.  
  
Although under immense pressure, the ink person saw a way out of this only by simply staring at his aggressor.

_Of course...!_

Gritting his teeth in hatred, he let go and swatted his arm over the torn, malformed side of Alice's face to try and tear the remaining flesh apart; or at least catch her off guard. And you bet that move saved him.

Once upon feeling an inch of his fingers across her tainted face's surface, the angel yelped in a bolt form the blue and flinched back from Sammy in a cowering motion, forcing her hands into letting him go as out of her control, her blade slipped and fell before their feet.

 _"D-don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me!!!"_ She pleaded in a panicking tone, despite being the one who triggered this fight. It was a rare and bizarre sight to see her that scared, but for a moment she nearly sounded _traumatized._

You'd wonder why.

Her distraction was enough to give Sammy a chance to escape, but as he looked at her let out the fear _he_ caused her to feel... he got confident.

 _"The knife..!"_ Bending down on one knee he reached out to grab it. He almost did.

How loudly did he yell as she crushed his hand with her heel just before he could make it.

 _"Crap!!!"_ He cried with a jolt to find himself standing again, before she pounced at him with force against the wall behind them. Alice pulled the straps of his suspenders manically, but as Sammy's hands were free he was quick enough to deliver a powerful punch to her jaw from below, before remorselessly kicking her in the stomach to shove her down. She yipped in pain as she fell, coughing up drops of blood.

Second chance. He wasn't even thinking of grabbing the blade again. He was about to dash the hell away.

But to let her go and flee now, while he still had the upper hand? A fatal mistake.

 She stood up and saw him escape; she couldn't allow this.

"Oh no you won't-!"

With his back turned on her and running, Alice ran after him and fell with all her force onto him like an animal, whacking him to the ground. He shrieked upon impact, coughing and groaning helplessly as his entire body thumped, the angel's weight over him crushing his spine. With a maddened grin, she grabbed hold of his scalp and arched his head backwards so that he would be forced to look at her. Sammy released a dry gasp, his neck's tendons hurting over the violent mishandling.

She panted for a few seconds before shaping her fury into words. "You... disgusting, ink-tainted abomination. You thought I was going to lose over one of the ink demon's slaves? _Oh, how pathetic must you be..._ " She sneered at him.

_“How pathetic **ALL** of you are!” _

The abhorrence and hatred were fully present in her voice. Indeed, Alice loathed Sammy and she always had, at least in this lifetime. To her, he was nothing. Nobody she would miss, having nothing to offer that she could use.

 _So would it make a difference if he was gone?_  
  
  "L-let me..!" He lisped with watery sockets. Fear, agony, exhaustion. 

Moments of silence, and his anxiety arose.

...The angel then, picked her answer.

With no sign of hesitation, she began mauling his face at full force against the floor. Sammy in a series of despair cried out in monumental pain, like a fox caught in a bear trap. He was gagging on the dripping blood, quickly getting smeared all over his face and splattered below him. His own ink was clogging his throat as he was forced to swallow it, the entire front of his skull going numb as it was continuously being battered against the wood.

She wanted to tear him down to death. She would make it known that walking out of the fight was not an option, one had to die. _And that would be him._

This wasn't a battle based on who had the most power anymore, but rather who desired it the most. And Alice's desire for power was far, far stronger than Sammy's.

This wasn't a battle at all, it was a slaughter.

Soon enough his calls for help and mercy turned into incoherent, violent cries. A fear-driven force, one of a person dreading to fall into the claws of death. Tears and ink kept rolling, streaming down from every part of his plundered visage, down to his neck, chest, and finally the floor. All while he never stopped yelling in agony.

A puddle of his own had formed around him, and his torture only seemed endless. Alice was like an aircraft on autopilot. Her onslaught would never cease until she'd make sure the musician was moving no more.

Finally, she spoke to him. But what came out of her mouth were no words of sparing.    
  
“I’m Alice Angel... _I AM AN ANGEL! AND NONE OF YOU WRETCHES WILL EVER DRAG ME BACK TO THE MACHINE, WHERE YOU **ALL** BELONG!!!”_ 

_Hell. He was in Hell._

 

Suddenly she stopped, both her breath and hands shaking.

_thud_

_thud_

_...”God damn it.”_

It found her at the most unfit moment. With eyes nearly full of terror, she let go of him and stood up quicker than she could think. Her breath shaking as she eavesdropped in horror upon the signs that reminded her of why she was hiding throughout her timeless life in this condemned studio.

Someone was coming. Someone she could never dare to stand up to no matter now much she hated.

Nobody could.

She shot one last glance at her hurt enemy. Then one last glance at the knife on the floor. 

The angel was scared, yes, but her malice never retreated. There was one last thing she wanted to do before she left him for dead. The question was, did she have time?

...

She grabbed it, then grabbed him by the hand.

Breathless over the pool of his melted face, a signal to run away rang repeatedly throughout his head. God knows how despite being on the verge of collapsing, Sammy managed to grip onto his senses. He pulled his dripping head up, spitting out drop after drop of ink to breathe while she dragged him. He couldn't see, sockets bathing in his own blood. 

 He felt her holding his wrist before lifting his torso a bit, with his hand placed against the wall. 

His knuckles touched the wood while his temporarily blind hollows widened, realizing she wasn't done with him.

"N-no pl-please...!" His last resort was to beg, too weak to fight back anymore.

 _Ironic, isn't it?  
An angel with no mercy. _  

And suddenly, he felt the blade harpoon the palm of his hand until it was nailed onto the wall.

Before he could scream, she forced her hand over his mouth for the sake of not attracting the ink demon closer than he already was. Sammy gasped and sobbed; gritting his teeth in anguish. It hurt, it hurt so much, and by violence he was sentenced to hold his voice in. A voice endowed with so much pain and suffering, and yet even if they were killing him he couldn't let it leave.

There was no feeling worse than that.

Alice drew her hand back in a frown and watched him struggle.

He looked up at her, breathing heavily, dying, towered by her gruesome and domineering victory.

 Her work was done here. She might have not finished him the way she was intending to, but she made sure that he would soon get taken care of anyway. Now, even in her own domain, she had to run.

And she ran.

Behind was left a man of sorrows, crucified and offered alive to the same ink demon he once served.

Perhaps to die in torn pieces in the hellish deity's teeth was an inevitable end after all.

It was needless to say that he was in a horrifying state. With her gone, he could finally hear the sinister sound of footsteps echo through the hallway, and terror overtook his pain in a blink of an eye.

Panting, the hapless one reached to grab the handle of the blade impaling him, body tensing up. What he felt as he finally took it out and freed himself was indescribably relieving and torturing at the same time. His hand was skewered from one side to another, it burned, and even if he could barely see, he felt it bleed as it turned numb.

Lying on the floor, his damaged face still bathing in tears and ink.

_Hurry, he's coming._

In short breath he crawled into the room with the dolls, unwillingly tracing his way with his dripping blood.

It was tragically futile, there was no time to escape. And as difficult as that was to swallow, he was in enough pain to just accept it. He dragged his own body behind a shelf, slumping next to a nearly human-sized Boris toy, and clung onto it hoping to die. It didn't even matter if Bendy would catch him anymore; if nobody tended to him soon, he was going to die either way.

This, this spot right there. It was his deathbed.

The footsteps got close enough for him to think his end was nigh. 

He held his breath and began to hum something, something so faint that nobody could hear but himself. His voice was dry and harsh. But he could only do so much to ease his withered soul, soon to leave him.

Farewell, old prisoner.

... 

But maybe not yet.

Among the blurry vision, the spiraling soreness, the surrendering consciousness... There was a soothing call.

_"Sammy...! Y-you're..."_

The voice was shocked, and sounded very close. As if, above his head. And despite his vision covered in inky blood, his aching face was greeted by the most consoling warmth. He felt the radiance of a light falling upon him.

It wasn't the ink demon who broke the fight, after all.

He felt his grasp around him, trying to lift him up to his feet. He was broken, both mentally and physically, and couldn't stand at all. But this was the only grasp in a long time that didn't feel forced. A helping hand. He knew one thing for sure: he wasn't in danger anymore. 

Sammy's trembling hands, one intact and one wounded, reached up to clasp the two sides of the bright projector into a final embrace of security.

"N..Nor..man...."

"...!"

 

And just like that, he collapsed into the projectionist's arms.


	9. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are more than we think we are. Sometimes we just need someone to remind us.

Darkness rules.

Perhaps to think that achieving to live peacefully in this prison, even if you no longer have the intention to pursue your freedom; is ethereal.

But if you need to suffer and struggle only to keep living, is this life worth it?

This was one of the many thoughts that flew through Norman Polk's judgement, who was forced to see his newest companion lay wounded in a safety that he could never promise to provide.

Sammy had been comatose for days. It had grown worrisome, because under the thorough cover of bandages nobody knew if he was truly healing, or simply...

But it all had passed now. Reality had once again proven that patience and persistence were great virtues.

On the chest sat Norman, facing a lethargic Sammy who had just awoken from what felt like an eternal slumber. Drowning in physical numbness and mental apathy, he barely ever managed to keep his rag-wrapped head upwards, much less trying to hop out of the hammock with a body that had grown so weak as it hadn't lifted a finger in days.

"Here, I gotcha." Norman helped him down and he, ever so delicately and carefully took a seat on the chest beside him. He looked so frail, with hands clinging onto the object's corners and edges to keep himself stabilized. And of course, he must be starving. Norman wouldn't speak nor would he offer further help. It was evident that Sammy needed some time to regain his consciousness completely, and so he let him be. 

His patience was powerful. He sat still for as long as needed, simply giving him the time to get some air and overcome his narcosis. If he could take care of him and watch over him for so long up until now, then this was just a child's play.

An almost hour passed this way.

It was soon that upon returning to his senses, the ink person's first instincts were also quick to take over. He brought his hands up to his head, and then began his attempt to tear off the soaked, bloody rags covering his damaged face.

Norman reacted instantly by grabbing both his appendages and stopping him. "Easy. You'll hurt yerself."

It was a warning, yet gentle. 

Gentle were he too as he slowly unwrapped the scruffy fabric to unveil the condition of his visage. Nothing was spoken in response, which made Sammy tilt his head up and mutter in a tired word. "...How bad is it?"

Norman's lens locked with his sockets, at the same time illuminating his face and observing the outcome of his recovery.

"It's; better." But was it really?

He could hear his breath fastening beside him, while he brought a hand to his forehead. He sounded exhausted. "I feel like somebody just punched a hole into my head..."

The projectionist empathized, placing a hand on his shoulder. Again, he refrained to speak up in order to not disturb his peace. If anything, he ever so slightly shifted his gaze downwards, casting light upon Sammy's deeply wounded hand. The fabric wrapping it was bearing a dense black stain just over the spot were the blade had pierced through, only drier than of the blood of the rags that covered his face. He decided to let him keep this one on, until he would feel ready to take it off himself.

Moments later and Sammy stood up, still lightheaded, worn down, but willing to sober up for his own good.

It perplexed Norman, who still didn't speak. He remained on standby and watched his movements.

Sammy sighed. For his thoughts were currently a swirling hurricane, and therefore he wished to clear his mind. Only turning his head a bit to glance over at him.

His lips parted to say something, but nothing came out. Perhaps at certain times, silence was better than odd words.

And so he left the room, heading for the bathroom.

Warmly lit by golden light, his glossy black form greeted him across the glass on his sight. A broken mirror had yellowed with the passage of time, covered in smudged dirt, dust, and all the other aftermaths of what this place had seen in its lifetime. 

He had so long to stop in his tracks and gaze at his own reflection. Doing so now was not provoking much of an emotion; he could see how his encounter with Alice Angel had resulted in this new image of his. His face was no longer as smooth and oily as before, it was dry, still recovering, bearing a variety of damage-inflicted features such as gashes and scars all over it. Some of these blemishes were even permanent, such as a deep vertical scar near his lip that traveled all the way up to his cheekbone. He was not the same Sammy anymore, but rather a slightly more... experienced one. A series of markings engraved by his newest battle with cruelty, to remind him that he overcame and endured yet more pain than he asked for.

While he scavenged into his mind, the projectionist approached and stood beside him looking at both their reflections himself.

"I couldn't do much to fix ya. I was afraid that, if I intervened the outcome would be worse."

Of course Norman had seen him when his wounds were still fresh, open, bleeding and frangible. So letting time do the healing seemed like the best option from the start.

However Sammy seemed rather indifferent.

"It's not like I looked _good_ before either."

That was a painfully true fact. Since the Ink Machine was brought into his world long, long ago, he had lost everything. His life, his fortune, his people, and the person he once was. So did it really matter if his appearance worsened now in the slightest? 

Still, he looked... rather troubled. Placing his hands on the sink and looking intensely into his reflection. But he was looking right through it, with hostility. As if it was a stranger.

Something in his manners drew the other one's attention. "Is everything alright?" 

No, it wasn't about the scars. It was the fear long living deep within him, coming back. The more he was looking at himself the more he was realizing how much he missed all that he used to have. It was the same feeling that overcame him back when he was staring at the unconscious man in the purgatory a little before the ritual; only stronger this time. Because this time he could look at himself and whatever he had become, knowing this state was permanent. Worthless, a pile of ink into the shape of his relics, with little memory of what he used to be.

Soon, a whisper trickled from his lips to answer.

_"This isn't me."_

Norman's attention fell on his friend again, yet without him taking his gaze off of the mirror.

"I know we look nothin' like we used to, but we are more than that."

The ink person bit his lower lip, the muscles on his face tugging and changing his expression, displaying what seemed like frustration.

"Oh what are we Norman? Just walking corpses drifting across a piece of Hell."

Yes, that was also true. But there is always more than meets the eye. It was of note that Sammy's approach was clearly self-deprecating. In an attempt to change his perspective of their reality, the projectionist decided to ask him a question.

"Tell me, what do you see in the mirror exactly?"

Sammy silenced. He saw... the saddest person in the world. His stolen life, his broken soul. His valueless existence having no effect on the world above, that beamed with life and continued to thrive without him. A trapped entity that had been blind for so long, condemned to live a world of truth that would never grant him freedom. The mirror before him reflected all the things that he wished he wasn't; yet he was forced to be forever.

For the first time, he could find no words to describe how that made him feel.

Norman observed, seeing how lost he was upon that question. If he could, he would smile. It was not his answer that he was anticipating this whole time, but rather, to answer his own question for him. 

"Let me help ya. Do ya want to know what I see, instead?"

Sammy's gaze finally shifted to him, pleading an answer to this impossible question with a nod.

Then they both looked back into the mirror. 

"I see Sammy Lawrence, a musician, a fighter, a man of courage. I remember how even before he knew me, as I lurked in the darkness, I could sometimes hear him play his music in the distance. Even without an audience he had so much passion for what he did. He's mastered every instrument, but I can tell his favorite one is the banjo. What else is he? He's a friend of Norman Polk, and they live together in a small safehouse. What he lacks in strength he has in wit, and his wit, oh it's unbeatable. He even survived the ink demon himself without fightin' back, could ya believe! Even when the angel tried to take his life a second time, oh no, he resisted. So I think he's is a very, very determined soul, and he ain't lettin' death take him that easy. His spirit carries a certain melancholy, I can tell he's hurt many times. When he sings, his voice trembles slightly. He's very special... that's why not only did I let him live, but chose to stay by his side too. And I didn't regret it."

And then he realized that Norman hadn't been looking at him this whole time, but _inside_  him.

It was just incredible. How little he had gotten to know him, and yet how much he had to say about him.

Sammy might not have been who he once used to be, but even down here he was still  _someone_. A person with integrity, thought, choice, identity. All the things that made him... _him_.

"Norman I..."

He wasn't sure what to say. The things he heard were so unknown, threatening, scary. These words provoked a tower of thoughts that he had built for himself, shaking it, trying to demolish it. They wanted to slaughter his inner being. He had never looked and would never look at himself this way, and it seemed like Norman had just tried to open his eyes, even if it scared Sammy to the core.

The projectionist placed a hand on his speechless companion's shoulder.

"Take your time. I've left some bacon soup on the table, and I found you an axe. Practice your swings until I return, hm?" 

Sammy paused the inner voice tormenting him, and turned to look at him. "Wait- where are you going?"

"To have a few words with Alice. I'll make sure what happened will never be repeated."

His brows arose with worry. _"She'll kill you!"_

But confidently, Norman shook his head. "No, I know her. She'll listen to me, Sammy."

The ink person sighed. He really didn't want to be left alone. Not after what he endured. But he couldn't do much to stop him, could he?

"Please... please come back as soon as you can."

For the first time, he was longing for his company. He felt... _safer_ with him around. How quickly can fear make two beings trust and care for one another unconditionally, even if their initial intentions were more or less egocentric. 

"You'll be fine. I won't be long." Norman promised so, and quietly he walked out of the bathroom. 

Sammy's gaze followed him to the exit of the safehouse, seeing him disappear as he closed the door shut. The sound of his footsteps deafening as he walked away to see the ruthless angel.

With his worry for both his own safety and his friend's momentarily paused, his attention returned to his reflection. Thinking about the unfathomably warm-hearted words he had given him. Was he lying? Was that just a facade he made up to console him? He wasn't sure if to believe him or not.

Perhaps, instead of helping him, he mystified him. Just perhaps, instead of clearing his thoughts, he only clouded them more.

Whatever he did, he caused him to feel something strong. And so he began to wonder himself, _who_ was he?

 _He was Sammy Lawrence, music department director of Joey Drew studios. His favorite song was "Willow Weep For Me", and he had learned to play it on 3 different instruments._ _He loved the smell of old books and burning candles, the sound of soft rain tapping on a window._   _He loved things he'd never forget, the sight of dewy flowers in the early morning, the taste of chocolate cake..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (11/9/2018: I forgot to post this earlier but this lovely person here made the first fanart for the series based on this chapter! Go check it out!!  
> https://theeditorqueen.tumblr.com/post/177358163845/i-drew-dis-for-you-pilots-its-from-the-start-of )


	10. Heartbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people are capable of stealing others' hearts. For your sake, never let them lay a hand on yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I forgot to add a description on Chapter 9. What an absolute fool. Fixed that now.)

He had grown tired of walking through the same halls, same doors, same stairs. Knowing the studio and its ins and outs had taken its toll on the projectionist, for he had remained here for the longest time with nothing to explore or wonder about.

Perhaps deep down he was no different than the rest of the souls, he too was wishing he could escape.

The wood creaked underneath his heavy figure as he stepped inside a small room, deepest part into the angel's girthy lair where she lied in hide.

"Alice." 

The seraph bewildered, stopped her atrocious machinery that worked in motion in a sense of unpleasant surprise once she heard the unexpected guest's voice calling for her.

Elevated grandly on her podium she stood behind a panel, from where numerous cogs and gears were under her control. Next to her, a torture table; but it wasn't empty. Strapped and bound like a mouse in a glue trap was a dying Piper, breathing away its painful life as her machines extracted its essential to her substances that were needed to maintain her perfect. It was gifted with a few moments of mercy, only so that the angel would talk to her intruder.

"Norman..? What do you _want_ here?"

His hand closed as a fist while he glanced at the victim, not in a sence of sympathy, but as a reminder to him of her everlasting cruelty.

Silence, and then his gaze became firm on her. "I came to tell ya to stay away from Sammy." 

Her teeth clenched in hatred and disbelief upon hearing the ink person's name being referenced. "He's still alive?! But I thought that...!"

She stopped herself in an instant, but why?

Her eyebrows frowned as she glared at Norman after her rageful reaction. "It was you... wasn't it?" Unexpectedly then, her expression softened and she melted into a relieved chuckle upon the newfound realization. "Oh silly Alice, you thought it was the demon..." A much sweeter voice of her polar personality spoke this time, in an attempt to comfort herself about the irrational choice to run away before being able to take Sammy's life.

"And... why are you here to tell me so? I do as I please. You know I hate the demon and all of his abominable followers." 

A cocky grin was formed on her half-impure face. "Of course I would try again if given the chance."

It took Norman a spoonful of patience not to spew hatred on Alice's ignorance upon such a bold confession. He was definitely resentful against her. But he knew better than to fight fire with fire. He knew well that it would not be wise nor to his advantage to get on her bad side.

"No. He ain't with the demon anymore. He's with me."

His choice of words intrigued her. She had sworn someone like Sammy was of the most devoted disciples to the sinful deity's steps; he was 'the prophet', a sepherd among the sheep, a cult leader. 

Could it be that even the most faithful of slaves to the tyrranic lord were beginning to discover the truth?

How sad would it be to assume that knowing this would make her feel guilty for her actions. No. To her, it did not change much. Even if Sammy was bellow her power and proven to be technically harmless... oh how she despised him.

She closed her eyes, resting her chin on crossed hands with a serene smile painted across her black, glossy lips. Her halo, half stuck into her hair glowed gold from where he could she her. The truth was that even if she was supposed to portray an angel, Alice looked like an oddly deformed divinity, if anything. 

"Oh Norman... you used to be such a bright man. How could you allow... how could you _welcome_ some vermin like him into your world?"

A genuine question, but uncalled for. He could never frown, even if he wanted, but he absolutely did not enjoy being belittled for his choice.

Even if he never thought it would, witnessing humiliating words towards his friend by the same person who made him suffer, added to the current turmoil.

These two factors made his black blood boil under his skin, and in a fit of anger his urge to put her back into her place overtook him.

_"Quit that crap Susie! Stay away from my friend do ya get that or no?!"_

_A_ nd then for a moment, he turned her world upside down.

_"I'M NOT SUSIE! I'M ALICE! **I'M ALICE ANGEL!** "_

Her voice shattered, her whimpering audible as she cupped her face with her hands in a traumatic manner. "I'm Alice Angel..." The sweet chords came again to whisper and console her hurt self.

Among everyone, she was the one who remembered life before the Ink Machine the most clear. But foolishly, she had ditched every sense of identity into the psychotic obsession to become her. The cartoon character she once voiced, brought to life as her recycled corpse and endowed with her soul: Alice Angel.

* * *

 A grip on the axe gave certain feelings. But perhaps never the feelings that a grip on the banjo would give him.

Holding it close up to his chest, he remembered again how it felt to slice through flesh and bone; and later ink and bone.

Sacrifices. Again, and again, and again. Flashing before his eyes.

It sickened him. With heavy heart he could see how belief can truly turn a man into a monster.

However he could not hold onto his sins. He knew his wrongdoings, and enlightened as he was he would never repeat them. But he could never vow not to kill if it was for the sake of protecting himself and his ally. Hence the role of the tool he held.

Sammy now stood silent against a wall, looking for something... anything.

The safehouse had not changed much during his short coma. Only a few items rearranged, some food supply added to fill the shelves, the aforementioned axe left for his use.

...And then, a mysterious barrel he had been questioning ever since he laid eyes upon it.

Was it empty? Was it full? And if yes, with what? Norman never mentioned it so its purpose was... ambiguous. 

He knew he should never touch what was not his own. No, that would also be a sin. And yet, the voice within him kept telling him he _deserved_ to know.

This time, he let it control him. Like a curious cat he loomed over the cylindrical wooden object and asked himself: _If he trusts me, why would he hide something from me? If he wanted to hide it, why would he bring it here?_

Curiosity was a deadly, deadly feeling. Oh how terribly he wanted to know. But if he did, would Norman still treat him with reliance? Would it matter if he knew? 

Unless he never knew.

Without a second thought, Sammy was already pulling the nails off with the tip of his rusty axe in a hurry. Tiny pieces of metal were falling off to the floor. Many. And finally the crate was unsealed.

Its contents were barely visible under the dim light, and so without hesitation he let his hand plunge and grab hold of whatever was that mystery.

A faint gasp escaped from his lips as he felt it hug his palm into a cold touch.

Spongy, soft, slippery, disgustingly squelchy.

Sammy remained dumbfounded as he pulled out his hand, gruesomely realizing that in his closed grasp he was holding a dripping, inky heart. A heart identical to his, the one that pumped his very own cursed veins. 

They were hoarded, pilled up inside like candy in a pumpkin lantern from a day spent going trick-or-treating. They came in various sizes, and even shapes. Pitilessly ripped out of the ribcages of their hosts, and stolen, leaving them to die in pools of spurting ink. They looked like... a collection.

His mind began to rally and the sight began to haunt him.

_"You son of a whore...!"_

A newfound bond begun to crumble. At the very least to his expectations, Norman was holding a secret. Norman was doing something horrible.

* * *

 Once you figure out how to get someone to taste their own poison, they have lost all power against you.

This is how the angel vowed to fullfil the projectionist's wish and never go after the ink person again, after he threatened to remind her of the one she used to be and she had so desparately tried to forget.

Peacefully then she expelled him from her burrow, and he took off without posing any further threat. Boundaries had been set and the task had been completed without a spec of blood to be shed from either side.

It was so that she would leave the two alone; for the time being.

Norman was backtracking his own path, wondering how he made her cry and back down by simply raising his voice. It was not his rough tone that caused such a reaction, but being referred to by her dead name.

Somehow, hearing it again caused her so much distress.

Yet to him that wasn't important now. Most of all he was worried about the friend that he left alone in wait, and was finally returning to him.

...

But the old light head was never prepared for the awful surprise he was about to face.


	11. Forgive And Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is ruled by fear. The world is consumed by hate. But fear and hate are curses that were born by the lack of trust. The very same thing that can destroy them with its presence.

It was a surprise that would leave him with a mark of thought for a long, long while.

Never hold secrets from those that trust you. Never.

_"Don't you dare fucking come inside, I'll chop your head off!"_

 Norman stood in shock by a door wide open, only to be greeted by a sentence soaked in abhor and the sight of an axe-wielding Sammy clinging to the wall of the kitchen's very end.

He shook his jittering head in dismay as tears were streaming down his scarred face and the projectionist refused to do as told, slowly and carefully approaching his distressed friend.

He remained in place, his body shaking with the axe held close upon his chest as if ready to defend himself.

No physical facial expressions could be made to describe Norman's immense confusion and worry, but the clueless projectionist had seen many strange things in this lifetime, and yet he was as speechless as he had not ever been.

"What... what's the meaning of this?"  
His speaker, always harsh and grainy, could only do so much to deliver these words as softly as it could, while he stepped closer and closer.

The ink person swallowed his spit and held the axe forward, posing it as an obstacle between the two males. If he wanted to harm him, he'd have to avoid the blade, first. All at the same time, he was on steady to either attack him or dash away from him.

A split decision that would only be determined by an irrational thought.

_"The h-hearts... I am next you.. you fucking scum, I-I'm next aren't I?!"_

His voice was breaking weakly as his arms trembled, barely keeping the axe in place between the two. He was so, so scared of him. Even if he had nothing but his bare hands, he knew the projectionist could destroy him with ease.

Upon hearing these words, so filled with fear and hatred as if they were somehow submerged in a rancid cocktail, Norman's gaze shifted to the barrel he had brought in earlier. In horror he saw how it had in fact been opened and the hearts were exposed. 

And indeed to his worst fears, Sammy had assumed what his fatalistic instincts told him: That his heart was next in line.

God, how nastily that made the projectionist's stomach churn.

A trust so broken and fragile, like a silky thread that was thinning every second. Fate was now into his hands to shape, and whether this trust would be restored, or demolished.

Norman was a bright man, but not a man of miracles. His choices were limited.

Ever so gently, he moved a step closer.

"Sammy- let me explain."

 _"LIES!"_  
He howled at the top of his lungs, standing his ground without an ounce of hesitation or withdrawal.

The projectionist knew that full of anguish as he were, he wouldn't simply back down. Even if he was far stronger, Sammy was armed and his fury enhanced every bit of him. Challenging a madman with a weapon was like throwing yourself into a lake full of alligators. So he too, had to be careful.

With such in mind, he approached in close range.

In less than a second the axe was hovering inches away from his lens. A warning sign, all while Sammy looked through him.

Norman never broke eye contact. Even with no expression he seemed so nervous, so worried. So afraid, he might do something he never intends, and lose the only person that had began to gain his trust in so damn long.

Sammy looked afraid too. Only, oh so much more. Afraid to lose his life, afraid of the only person that for a short while he believed he could find comfort to. How he wanted to yell, to call out for help. But no one would be there to help him, because the last person who could was now out to kill him too.

Norman remained quiet, looking at the distressed person he had dangerously and unwisely approached.

A thought so loud within him began stinging him like a wasp.

_Do something now!_

And so without a warning, he risked it all.

Towering as he was, he grabbed the axe and by the mightiest of forces he snatched it right off of Sammy's tight grip, ridding him of his very last security that he so desperately was holding on to.

 The world crumbled before his weeping eyes. A scream, as he fell on himself and tried to hold onto his life. Where to run, where to hide? But if being cornered and defenseless hadn't shaken him enough, the cold grapple of an enemy's hands would.

Sammy lost his words as his voice surrendered to a mere wail, gasping and struggling to wrestle his way through the projectionist's grip. Like a dying fly tangled in a spider's web.

 Norman stood so tall above him, but he couldn't see him anymore. He saw a monster.

Dreaded words of pleading poured out of his mouth once he could no longer move. And so he spoke as he sobbed.

_"I-..I want to live...!"_

Fear plagued him. Fear of death, fear of being maimed.   
Fear of a man he once dared calling a friend.

This emotional weight was too much for the projectionist. He would be lying if he said he wasn't upset with what he was doing, what he was _forced_ to do to try and make things right. But praying this would make him listen at the least, he began to show him that he had no reason to fear.

He brought the axe where Sammy could see it, and then... he dropped it on the floor.

The miserable being held hostage in his grip began then to come into his senses, mouth gaping in shock as he witnessed his captor disposing the weapon he took from him. Was he traumatized? He was. But he wasn't being killed.

Painfully shaken but attentive, he began to fight back his tears. 

On the spur of the moment he understood that he had been spared; just like the first time he came across him.

And as Norman started to look less and less like a monster, he could see just how tired he was. How worried, afraid, and restless he was. Not aggressive, not bloodthirsty. Only genuinely troubled.

A soul so heavy sighed, offering a word of comfort to the distressed man.

"I'm sorry."

Just like that, it reaped through his fears so that he would finally dare and look up at him, and somehow, the pitch black pits he had for eyes were no longer filled with terror.

Slowly the projectionist softened his grasp, and as if by a miracle Sammy stayed put.

A droplet of trust, giving him a chance to speak for his sins.

"If I wanted to kill ya... I would have done it much earlier."

The ink person's lips parted, and yet again he had nothing to say. But at last, he realized how true this confession was. Norman had taken care of him, had shown so much concern for him. He waited for him to heal. And selfishly, Sammy had taken that for granted. It struck him. How guilty he suddenly felt that he believed Norman wanted to take his heart after sacrificing so much of his precious time, going out of his way just for his sake. Perhaps he had sins to answer for too.

He bit his lips and put his hands over his head in frustration, ready to blame himself for everything. "Oh goodness, Norman I-"

But he was cut off quickly. No, he wouldn't let him apologize. Not until the other had done so first.

"I am not a saint, I hope y'er never believed I was. I kill those who dare trespass my territory. I collect their hearts; just like ya play ye'r music."

So it was a hobby. A twisted, macabre choice, but still a hobby. Just something to keep himself busy so that he would not lose his mind, a fate so many of their inky brethren had suffered.

Sammy exhaled in a shaky breath, feeling worse now that he had the truth before him.

His turn.

"...I should have never opened that barrel without you knowing." 

Guilt, they both felt guilt. In their own ways, they both had sinned. And they both apologized.

So naturally, they would both forgive.

"It's alright. I should have told ya about it before I left." 

"I'm... glad, that you finally did."

Even if their friendship had been tainted, just like they thought it was meeting a catalytic end, it was saved. 

They both remained silent like death, for a few minutes at least. Just to clear their hazy minds. They needed it. They really needed it.

But the world had treated Sammy so callously up to this point, and he decided silence was just not enough at all. The thoughts had been fed and grown, only to wrap around his head like a cursed veil. And yet he never stopped feeding them, even if his mind was yelling at him to stop. He fed and fed the thoughts, and they became colossal and impossible to ditch. And they tormented him, and he wanted to destroy them before they could destroy him.

He may have been sitting quiet beside his companion, but in his head there was a raging war between his thoughts and his inner being. So silence was not enough. No, he needed something more.

"I have to go."

Norman was once again perplexed by the mysterious ink person. So he had to ask: "Where?"

He didn't have a plan. But he had a place that felt like _home,_ even if it would never be as safe as this peaceful little lodge. He wanted to go there. And sit, by himself, and his musical, lifeless friends.

"I need some time alone. I need to think."

"Sammy..."

Void of a reply he stood up, picked up the axe that he rightfully deserved to keep, and walked to the door.

But the projectionist never stopped him. It was... fair. He wanted to be alone, and that was fair. 

Sadly, as much as he would be worried for him, he could not keep him in this place against his will.

Caring for someone meant you had to let them go, if they wanted to be let go. The only thing he could do was cross his fingers in hope he would be alright until he safely returned to their small, secure domain.

"...be careful out there."


	12. The Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We fear death, not knowing what awaits us after. But for some, it's that after itself that they fear...

They used to be better off in silence until the day they joined one another.

Hand to hand, back to back against the evils of this world that had ruptured over them.

Since that strange day a lot had changed.

Fast forward to the present. They both had learned that they needed one another, yet it was something that they never spoke about. He never told him "I need you". And neither did he. But they knew, oh they both knew well. Their human souls, the necessity to be near others, to grab a hand and give a hand, live and let live. Down there to _care_ for someone felt so dangerous, and yet, it made them who they were.

Just as simple as that; and simply out of worry he decided to follow him.

Norman was like a living compass. He knew where to go, how to go, where to look and what to look for.

It would not be a surprise if his artistic friend was in no other place but the one in where he had found the solace to call "home". 

His bright yellow light crawled on the painted wall, hugging letters engraved decades ago by remarkable hands.

"MUSIC DEPARTMENT"  
All in bold, curving funnily like a small wave across the surface of a drawn paper. And right underneath, surrounded by the rest of the art, the only name that he was glad to see or hear of.  
"DIRECTOR: SAMMY LAWRENCE"

 He stood there, not for too long before he drifted along to the recording studio, to come across a sight so strange yet so... acceptable.

Sammy was sitting safe and sound with his legs crossed on one of the front chairs. In his hold was not the axe, but this particular twangy instrument he so much appeared to love. Some called it, the banjo. In the same room, two searchers, those deformed inky beings that seemed to only have half a body, emerging from boiling puddles of their own blood across the studio's floor. They did not bother Sammy, and he did not bother them back.

Perhaps he did not bother at all. He was strangely silent. Even as the projectionist walked inside, he did not bat an eye.

"Sammy?"

Oh but he did not answer. He didn't _want_ to.

The other went as far as to take a seat next to him and join him, and he never even shot him a glance.

Just to get him to say something, Norman gently shook his shoulder. Surprisingly, he did nothing still. Not even show a hint of annoyance, question or confusion. He was completely passive. But the only conclusion as to why he was completely ignoring his friend at the time, was because he was doing so on purpose. As for what reason exactly, only himself knew.

Can silence be violent?

"Ya know... sorry for taking the axe right off y'er hands back there. Didn't mean to threaten ya."  
He mumbled in regret, giving up and speaking first.

Out of Norman's sight, Sammy gritted his teeth behind his shut lips with the image fresh in memory. And finally, just finally, a response.

"When you did that I... I felt my heart collapse inside my chest."

He placed the banjo down, delicately so that it wouldn't endure a scratch. His head lowered just a bit, and then, a whisper soaked in pain.  
"I've never felt so terrified before."

These words were like poison darts being thrown in maximum velocity straight into the center of his mind. He never realized just how much he managed to traumatize him. And by God's name, if he knew, he would never have done this.

"Do you forgive me?"

Only then did Sammy turn his head, bearing a glazed expression only to stare at Norman with just the corner of his eye. For a moment he almost held a grudge. But, he could not stay resentful towards the only person who cared for him, could he?

In a soft and benevolent voice, he finally answered.  
"Of course."

And simply turned his gaze away again.

Norman felt a huge weight leave him. Relief, washing through him and cleansing him of his worries. Not solely because he knew Sammy still had faith in him, but because for once he felt worthy of forgiveness. Despite what he had done, despite who he was, and how much he was feared, despised or hated by everyone, aside his companion. Having earned forgiveness reminded him that he was not yet the monster he thought he had become.

Sammy was lifting his soul as much as he had tried to lift his before. And in a sense, he was also grateful to have him.

They both were quiet now, them and every instrument in the room, except for the peculiar show before their eyes. Like in a wildlife documentary, the two searchers appeared to be consuming one another; or at least trying to. Gurgling, bubbling noises escaping their gaping mouths and eventually, the stronger one was slowly and painfully consuming its weaker counterpart.

It would seem brutal to virgin human eyes, but the two men knew that this was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Ya see those things? This is what happens to the fallen who fall."

Sammy turned his head once more, intrigued by this newfound, however not utterly shocking piece of information in a curious desire to learn more. "Is it true?"

It was time for Norman to once again put his knowledge of witnessing into words for him. "We are souls that where put through the Ink Machine, and we'll never be put at rest. Inky bodies... if they die, they are reborn immortal, but it comes with a horrible price. They come back as malformed, shapeless mollusks with no memory, incapable of speech and communion. Remnants of the remnants. This is the curse of the ink."

He felt this truth crush him whole, even if for a moment. "So that's what they are." he whispered in a tone unusually exhausted, and nodded silently upon the explanation. It made sense now. Every being made of ink that was sacrificed, killed by the ink demon, or simply met their demise via some other cause, returned as a searcher. 

"But, why searchers?" Sammy allowed himself to ponder again with a hint of thoughtfulness.

This time though, Norman was driven at a dead end. "Well I'd tell ya if I knew. I guess they're searchin' for who they used to be and stuff like that. People like to make up fairy tales and giving things names, sometimes the only thing you can do to make things a bit better is to sugarcoat stuff. So we're all grown to calling them 'searchers' out of a story made up to pity them."

Although it was a reasonable explanation, that the searchers got their name because humans by nature give names and stories to beings they cannot comprehend, there was more to that. Sammy for once put his inner philosopher aside, and by rummaging through his memory, was quickly enlightened with a logical explanation. 

"No, a host... they are searching for a host."

 The projectionist lifted his torso slightly, tilting his head a bit curiously. It was something he'd never heard of or think so before. And so he was all ears.

"When the shee-  _the man_ , first walked in here, they attacked him. Swarmed up to him like vultures. And I stood above, and watched as they tried to grasp him and he fought through them to run. I'd never seen anything like that. They must be enticed by untainted beings, hoping to achieve a form closer to what they used to be by merging with a host. They're like-- like parasites."

Norman somehow felt his lens widen, even if it was physically impossible with his sight bound by metal and not muscles or skin. He had to admit, Sammy _did_ make up in wit for what he lacked in strength.

"Huh, guess there's one thing you know better than I do. Look at y'er being a smart little man." He said with a chuckle, crossing his arms.

The other glared at him playfully. "Pssh. Little? I used to be a whole director and you just call me 'little'?" 

The projectionist simply shrugged, and teased him away. "I mean. Y'er a halfwit."

Sammy frowned, squinting at Norman's significantly larger build, then back at the more scrawny of his own. Only for his brows to relax again and for him to return an embarrassed chuckle. "Guess I can't argue."

How peaceful it felt for them to allow themselves to finally be at ease with one another. No uncomfortable silence, no hostile aura. Just the exchange of a good-natured banter. A reminder that they were very much indeed, friends. Each struggle they faced together brought them closer, and was a crop for their bond to grow little by little, leaving room for them to finally express more than anguish and fear.

But as pleasant as a quick session of friendly teasing and goofing around was, their problems began to swirl over their heads again, and brought them anew to a monotonic and quiet agony. The searchers were gone from the room. One eaten and one fed. But they would both be back, the same as before. And they'd die and they'd come back. Always. Aside of the ambiance, everything sounded as dead and deaf as before.

Trouble bound, Norman had a word of care to share. But as soothing as showing care was, it wasn't always gratifying. Some words were harsh, no matter how courteously you may want to deliver them.  
 "Always hold onto y'er life Sammy. 'Cause I might not always be there to help ya."

Sammy blinked slowly. A grim remainder which he greatly hated, yet could do nothing but agree with. "I know. You too."

A sigh escaped his lips, and then, a whisper.

It was not a whisper addressing his friend, but mostly himself.

A hope he couldn't let go no matter how much faith he had lost in the world surrounding them, this world and its unforgiving ruler.

_"May we never fall."_

And to never fall he'd pray.


	13. Corrupt Author

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Books can give one knowledge. Is knowledge good? Mostly. Some knowledge is dangerous. Forbidden, even.

He caught him staring up to the balcony for a second, although in fact he was doing so for a prolonged amount of time.

Without a word and out of the blue, he stood up and left the recording studio. 

"What the- Norman wait." Hurriedly said Sammy, standing up as well to follow him to god knows where he wanted to go now.

He only caught a glimpse of the projectionist, perhaps just the cables protruding from his head turning to the staircase at the end of the hall, the cobweb weaved in the corner whooshing by his motions as he headed to the projection booth. 

And that was when he began to get the hint.

Panting lightly as he jogged up the stairs, his gaze met Norman who caressed the desk with his hand, particles of dust that were sitting and building up on the surface for years flew around in the air around them. His light shifted to the left and met with a projector, identical to the one he was bearing as a head in his afterlife. 

"This seems... awfully familiar." He spoke as he returned to look at Sammy.

The ink person sighed, faint memories connected to the name of his friend returning to him at last. "I believe that this used to be your booth. You worked here."

Norman's shoulders relaxed, but a bitter feeling poisoned him for a second. "Ah..." he mumbled with his voice so faint yet coarse. It hurt a bit that he could not remember that 'projectionist' used to be the name of his profession as a human in the studio, and not just the name they gave to him as a beast. However somehow he knew, and even more with Sammy's encouragement  _he was sure_ , that this office belonged to him.

 They were submerged in the sound of static as once again, they found no further words to exchange.

Right next to his hand print, left there by the absence of dust compared to the rest of the desk, was also sitting a book as old and dusty. It appeared to have letters. Just... covered, in dirt, ink and yet more dust.

He picked it up and brought it to his light, and at the same time drawn by this relic, Sammy walked up from behind him and reached out with his hand to swipe the surface.

Then, the writing was unraveled at last:

 _"The illusion of living"_  
_by Joey Drew_

 It was a name and yet so different than all the other names that Sammy remembered. He felt his heart beat just a little faster, his ribs hauling his chest in, and a drop of ink cascading from his head until it fell from the shores of his jaw to the floorboards below. This name, it gave him anxiety. And the worst part was that he had no idea _why._

Norman became uneasy once again, seeing his companion's body quake even slightly at the presence of this book's cover. "Sammy? You okay?"

The man of ink tried again and again to refresh his memory, as if this name was tied to something horrific- something more than just a person he used to know. But he could not.

His lips trembled as he tried to speak. "Joey, he... he did something."

 And that was all that he knew. A spark of apprehension returned to him after the sentence, the agony of knowing the person who wrote this book had done something that Sammy deeply dreaded, and at the same time not knowing _what_. It was torture. 

The projectionist remained confused, even after looking at the name himself. "Who is Joey?" He asked, trying to help Sammy connect the pieces to this puzzle that as much as he could do with whatever he may know himself.

Sammy then looked up at Norman, left wide-eyed and breathless by his own deprivation of knowledge of a name and an event that he so much still wished he held inside his worn down memory.

"I don't know."

He shook his head in denial to himself, looking at his empty hands. A missing piece that made him feel so weak and bare.

"...I don't know."

A despondent sigh poured out of the other one's speaker as he placed the book back on the desk. Only to use his free hand to kindly grip on his friend's shoulder.

"We should get back. Stayin' here for too long seems to not do ya any good."

Sammy nodded silently at the suggestion, ready to leave finally. He may have come here to find peace and dissolve his foggy thoughts, but now, he had met others. New thoughts, more complex. Complex and unsolvable, as if you handed a college student's math homework to a six year old. If it wasn't for Norman talking, he would have wanted to stay here more, and drown in these thoughts until they drove him to a dead end again. So perhaps, he was right to suggest so right now.

 The projectionist beckoned him to follow, and began to walk down the stairs.

Sammy took half a step, and threw one last glance with the corner of his eye at the desk. _Take it,_ said his inner being.

* * *

Walking down the old corridors beside him, he held his axe in one hand, and Joey's cursed novel in the other.


	14. Ode To The Nonbelievers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no time to write a summary with a moral or a deep meaning today. Our audience needs to know. Sammy, this book that you found, did you read it? What did you learn? Nothing...? What! It was just a book about cartoons?!  
> Hmm... Then perhaps the answer you're looking for is somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE DO READ THE END NOTES AFTER THE CHAPTER! I HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO SAY!**

Deep into the halls they walked, dripping bodies one next to the other with their tired eyes always peeled.

The walls were oddly quiet, but weren't they always? As ink seeped through every crack and corner, puddles of black blood surrounded them in their every step. As if to engulf them both, despite them already being imprisoned. 

Perhaps it was bad luck. Perhaps the harsh and grey tides of fate chose their backs to wash upon, backs that already carried too many arrows to yet allow receive more pain.

But fate is not physical and fate doesn't care.

A loud crack as the unsuspecting men headed towards their lodge was more than enough to alert them, to make them jump out of their skin.

"Stay behind me." Norman demanded sternly with one hand in front of his friend, undoubtedly with the intention to cover him.

Something about the way Sammy held his axe changed, fist stiffening and gripping harder onto the handle as he lost a breath, staying behind the projectionist. They moved slowly but surely towards the door from where there could be heard sinister sounds of certainly... an invasion.

A gasp behind him and a hand to violently shake his shoulder broke his attention and made him look back at the ink person, who would now bear an expression so frightened that even as inky and dark as his form was, you could have sworn it turned as pale as a swan in the snow. 

But as much as he wanted to scream, and run and hide, he could not dare make a sound this time. His sockets only pointed on the ground, a gesture to which Norman followed with his lens and blinding light. Only to successfully deepen his worry.

Black, liquid web-like patterns covered the ground underneath the door, accompanied by the horrifying sound of a demon's breathing ambiance inside the safehouse. As if death in its physical form had come to pay them a visit.

Thoughts drowned in panic for both ends. They couldn't speak- for if they did, they had already lost this game. Among the empty vending machines and garbage bins covered in old age cobwebs there was no place for them to hide. And if they ran; every creak of the floor would betray their presence. 

His breathing lingered, his footsteps echoing merely feet away from where they stood, and to their dismay he might have already been aware.

However at the end of the hall there was a Little Miracle Station, ages unused. Whether it was blessed by a spell or it was simply a wooden box, it had to be the last resort. If they could make it there in time. And yet another problem arose: It was not and would never be enough to hide them both.

Sammy gave a look of distress at Norman. A thought that he could not convey with words but by his eyes was translated into hope and a pleading for him to go hide there. Yet at the same time, a sensible aura of worry for what would Norman do if he was left out. Sammy could be safe and sound in hide, but what about him?

The projectionist did not take his time to think about it, and only nodded with assurance. Even if it it was more than just a risky chance to take, he _could_ try to deal with Bendy. 

But Sammy shook his head in denial. He would not leave him alone, no. That would not be right of him. 

Then even without an expression or voice Norman became impatiently threatening, though for his own good. He had to  _make_ him hide, because if he did not, they would both face punishment.

And so he grabbed his shoulders and gave him a little push, and Sammy had no choice but to remain docile and do as understood.

He quickly strolled and crept inside the station then, leaving his friend wait outside a door that held the root of all evil behind.

He could only cross his fingers.

 Norman was about to open said door; but somebody else beat him to it.

The door creaked as it opened wide and he was greeted by the grin of a tyrant, who looked perhaps just as confused to see him as he was scared to but well hid so.

Sammy witnessed the scene unfold like a screenplay behind the cut, invisible and invincible, but in agonizing worry inside his cocoon.

The ink demon looked at the projectionist with judging, blind eyes behind the melted image across his face. And the other played along, standing silent before him and not daring to speak up at all unless the Lord spoke first or demanded him speak. Which in sooner than in a minute, he did. 

"Is there something I must know about?"

Norman hesitantly shook his head, denying and lying as he hoped Bendy would not suspect a thing. "No, forgive me. I wasn't looking for you."

The demon almost hissed, disappointed in his stance and reasons. He had proven to be less reliable and useful than he used to be years back; when this place was his home and the halls he wandered were full of suffering souls in their new bodies, that much they loathed and yet this ink they were now made of kept them trapped here to this day. The projectionist though had his own place in the kingdom, just like everybody. Like Alice, he was despised but with his habits he delivered work that was vital for both Bendy and the Ink Machine. Even unknowingly. Even unwillingly. So he had no reason to shatter him like he shattered other beings.

And so, the demon would just leave him be and continue his work. "Then you're standing in my way. Move."

Little did he know of his secret, the prophet that not too long ago he had rejected.

Norman took a step back to his callous order, and made way for the deity with no hesitation.

Sammy's heartbeat pulsed faster and faster as he saw him slowly trail inside the hall. Limping, but the way he walked and approached was sinister. In a few moments he was standing right in front of the Miracle Station, breathing, searching. The ink person was struggling to keep still and quiet, but could hardly hold his breath.

If Bendy could sense fear, Sammy was not invisible neither invincible.

With his back turned on the projectionist, he remained idle and observed the tiny hideout.

Knowing that Sammy was petrified, Norman was on steady for what was about to come. He pondered if in case things went south, should he risk it all just to save him, or simply let things be the way they are as the bloodstained law of natural selection ordered. Stepping up to the ink demon was something he thought of as impossible so far, something that would undoubtedly result in instant death and condemnation. Because the ink demon was... the ink demon. One and only god. But for the first time he realized he cared about protecting Sammy more than he cared about saving himself. And if that was true, he would have to stand as an obstacle to their ruler's plan.

Sammy held his eyes shut, and his skin was quaking as drop after drop of ink fell from him. He felt the demon's rancid breath on his face, as the only thing that separated them was nothing but a chipped and rotting, wooden sheet. He felt as if something was pulling on his dear life and he was struggling to hold onto it, except it was a force far stronger than he was, and sooner or later his hands would slip and let go. Hiding and running, and at last, it found him. Back to consume him, without losing this time.

This would be the end of Sammy Lawrence. He would return to the ink to join his fallen brethren.

He would finally get the amen he regretted to once beg for.

And while these thoughts drifted through the blighted duo, yet another wish seemed to have blessed them.

Oh how lucky they were that he never knew. Bendy decided there was nothing inside, and turned the other way. His glare circled the room for a moment before he finally walked away, and vanished into his inky, murky portal. The black trail closed in, until the wood absorbed it and the corridor was clear and safe from his presence.

Cold. Cold. Quiet.

Warm. The rays of his lens caressed his face as he opened the station's door.

He saw him. He was still shaken, holding the axe and book close just like a scared child would hold its teddy bear at night.

A welcoming voice filled the corridor as the projectionist checked on his companion's integrity with most care. "Are you okay?"

Sammy's lip trembled, unable to answer as if he could not find a set of words for what he felt. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He could only gaze back, silent, like a barren tree with no leaves.

The silence broke two sudden sounds: the sounds of metal and paper clashing on the ground beside his feet, as his hands simply gave way and let the two items he held fall.

And just like that, he fell into Norman's arms. 

There was nothing to say, it seemed. But this time, it mostly felt right not to.

As surprised as the projectionist was, he accepted this. An embrace from a friend, a bystander, _a beloved one_  who felt as if they almost lost their life. In fact... not only did he accept it, but he slowly put his arms around him too, and held him close as his head rested on his shoulder.

They were both so tired, so lost. So badly longing to _feel_ something in a Hell that had taken everything from them. And for once, they felt.

They felt a warmth; so human and inviting, as if they had finally found their souls among a lightless labyrinth held by a riddle no one could solve. Sammy cracked a weak smile as he tightened his grip around him, finally letting himself get indulged in feelings he had almost completely forgotten. The joy, the ecstasy of having someone not only in your arms but also close to your heart. It was so, so incredibly human.

They had nothing to hide anymore- not after the omen of death came for them and they made it together. They preserved their trust for one another. And as blindly in this world's God everyone would trust, in none they would trust.

 In none but them, as partners for the rest of their existence.

Together as they drifted along within the ink in this bottomless ravine, lost belief but found solace.

And the heavens saw them sow love in a world that did everything to reap it, so they spoke and promised that whatever may happen, the tides of fate, whether harsh and grey or gentle and peach, would hold them together. 

No beings in Hell should be lucky with a blessing from Heaven. But they had defied Hell and let Heaven live inside them.

Even as black blood pumped in their organs, keeping their cursed cadavers conscious despite the deathly fate that found them so long ago. Even if they were trapped within bodies made of ink and not mortal, human flesh and crimson blood like they should and for a long time wished they could have back. None, absolutely none of these physical functions mattered. Because none of them defined them.

But something else did. Something in this moment about how they held one another, while everyone around them tore one another apart.

They began to understand what it really meant to be alive.

What it really meant to be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this fic. I know a lot of you didn't see it coming, so I will explain myself to you guys.
> 
> As much as I've grown to love this series, it also takes out a big chunk of my free time and has become frustrating to write. College starts very soon for me, and I still need some time to myself for when Chapter 5 of BATIM comes out (i want to be really, REALLY hyped for that). On top of those things I'm also running low on ideas! As I said in the beginning, I started this as a little idea and I had no plan about expanding it. I am _much_ less of a writer than I am an artist, and I realized I don't have the capacity to flesh out such a story the hard way. Sadly, I had to bring it to a closure much sooner than I was expecting. At one point I felt more obligated to continue rather than have fun with it. I quickly realized that writing with continuity was not for me. So basically, I kept this story short and sweet and it is time for it to come to its end.
> 
> However, the good news? Although this is the end of the "main story", it's not the end of the series, as I'll be writing drabbles that will be canon to the INWT universe but will not have much of a continuation. Just some extra content to keep you guys entertained, and for me to actually enjoy writing whenever I feel like it. Perhaps answer some questions through them too, who knows. See it as some kind of "DLC" but for a fic : )
> 
> Right now I'll probably take a break from writing, you can keep up with me on tumblr **https://ufopilots.tumblr.com/**
> 
> Next time you see me, I'll have written something new!


End file.
